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GIFT  BOOK  FOR  ALL  SEASONS. 


NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED    BY   MARK    H.    NEWMAN    &    CO., 

199    BROADWAY. 


LOAN  STAC\^ 


EDWARD    O.    JENKINS,    PRINTER, 

No.  114  Nassau  street,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Page 

A  Short  Paper  on  Procter, .        .        .        . 

3 

Autobiography  of  a  Sensitive  Spirit, . 

104 

To  the  Genius  of  Poetry, 

6 

«  To  the  Unknown  God," 

106 

Money  at  Interest, 

6 

"  A  Thing  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy  forever," 

107 

The  Dead  Weight, 

10 

Original  Anecdotes  of  General  Washington 

,    109 

Hannah  Adams, 

11 

A  Summer  Evening,       .... 

111 

The  City  of  Night 

u 

Motives,     ....... 

112 

The  Unforgotten,        :         .         .        .        • 

17 

The  Conquest  of  Peru,  .... 

115 

Melville,  the  Pulpit  Orator,   . 

18 

Rev.  N.  S.  S.  Beman,  D.D., 

118 

An  Hour  with  Thomas  P.  Hunt, 

.    22 

A  Green  Old  Age, 

12S 

The  Old  Scotch  Couple, .... 

26 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Things,  . 

124 

The  Outlet  of  Lake  George, 

29 

The  White  Lamb, 

125 

Professor  Samuel  F.  B.  Morse, 

30 

"  My  Peace  I  give  unto  you,"     . 

127 

A  Funeral  in  the  Country, 

33 

The  Claims  of  Sacred  Music,  . 

12S 

Tennyson's  Locksley  Hall, 

38 

The  Thousand  Islands  of  the  St.  Lawrence 

,    131 

Associations,       ..... 

41 

«  Peace,  Be  Still," 

132 

Charles  I.  and  Cromwell, 

42 

The  Fear  of  Death, 

133 

Time  the  Healer,        .... 

46 

The  Feast  of  the  Lord,  .... 

136 

My  Country  Residences, 

47 

Let  Us  Love  Each  Other 

13S 

The  River  of  Life,     .... 

51 

Horseback  Rambles,       .... 

139 

The  Design  of  Life,        .... 

52 

Home,        .        .        . 

141 

The  Mother's  Lament, 

54 

A  Soliloquy 

142 

The  Crystal  Palace,        .... 

55 

Sunset  in  Baffin's  Bay, 

144 

True  Greatness, 

60 

Guardian  Angels, 

144 

The  Puritans  Judged  by  their  Writings, 

63 

Robert  Browning,       .... 

.     145 

The  Sisters  of  Bethany, 

66 

Earth's  Oldest  Son 

147 

"Westminster  Abbey,       .... 

67 

On  the  Death  of  a  Dear  Friend, 

.     150 

The  "Wo-Prophet  of  Jerusalem,  . 

6S 

The  Presence  of  God,      .... 

150 

Evening  near  a  Great  City,     . 

69 

"I  would  not  Live  Al way," 

,     153 

More  Precious  than  Rubies, 

.      70 

Personal  Character  of  Dr.  Chalmers, 

156 

The  Treasures  and  Pleasures  of  Geology, 

74 

Some  Great  Work,     .... 

162 

Rage  for  Unearned  Wealth, 

.      77 

Apostrophe  to  Niagara,  .... 

167 

The  Fear  of  being  an  Old  Maid,     . 

79 

Gems  of  Modern  English  Poetry, 

168 

The  Voice  of  the  Sea, 

.       81 

They  Fade, 

171 

Half-way  People, 

82 

A  Plea  for  Old  Trees, 

172 

The  Spirit-Land,         .... 

.       84 

Spirit  of  Love, 

173 

The  Right  Side  for  the  Bride, 

85 

Prejudices  against  Innovation,    . 

.     174 

Tlie  Minstrelsy  of  Nature, 

.       87 

Dignity, 

177 

The  Christian  Catacombs  of  Rome, 

88 

The  Ideal :         • 

.    179 

Submission  to  Providence, 

.       98 

The  True  Source  of  Happiness, 

160 

'■  And  God  said.  Let  there  be  Light," 

94 

Early  Piety, 

.     185 

Dies  lra3, 

.       95 

Farewell,         ...... 

187 

Two  Stories  for  the  Fireside, . 

96 

Old  English  Sacred  Poetry, 

.     188 

The  Bible  Class,        .... 

.     102 

Whither  Goest  Thou?     .... 

190 

Dr.  Gutzkff,  the  Missionary,  . 

103 

The  Stranger's  Grave, 

.     191 

r 

;             1 

^55 

IV 


CONTENTS. 


The  Law  of  Thrift, 

Youth, 

Luther  and  his  "Work,     . 
Earthly  Sorrow, .... 

A  Wish, 

"  Speak  Tenderly  to  the  Erring," 

The  Family  in  Heaven,  . 

''  Rejoice  in  the  Lord," 

The  Seven  Wonders  of  the  World, 

Runga, 

Tlie  Past  and  the  Future, 
Romance  of  Every-Day  Life, 


Page 
193 
196 
197 
201 
201 
202 
205 
206 
201 
210 
211 
212 


Stanzas,  .         .         .... 

The  Martyrdom  of  Polycarp,     . 

Rosabel, 

One  of  the  Graces,     .... 

Bunker  Hill  and  Calvary, 

Man's  Extremity,  God's  Opportunity, 

The  Press, 

Early  Life  in  the  Country, . 
The  Use  of  Tears,  .... 
Louis  Kossuth,  .         .         .         .         . 
Tiie  Warrior  and  the  Poet,     . 
The  Christian's  Death-Bed, 


Page 
212 
217 
220 
221 
226 
227 
229 
230 
234 
235 
241 
242 


Cmhlli0Jimettt0, 


1.  Kossuth. 

2.  Abdication  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 


3.  Outlet  of  Lake  George. 

4 

5 


Professor  Morse. 
Family  of  Cromwell. 

6.  The  Crystal  Palace. 

7.  Mount  Washington  Falls. 

8.  Rev.  S.  H.  Cox,  D.D. 


9.  Ataliba  and  his  Family. 

10.  Rev.  George  Potts,  D.D. 

11.  St.  Lawrence  and  tbe  Thousand  Islands. 

12.  Columbus  propounding  his  Theory. 

13.  Rev.  William  B.  Sprague,  D.D. 

14.  Remorse  of  Charles  IX. 

15.  Rev.  Leonard  Bacon,  D.D. 

16.  Rev.  S.  H.  Tyng,  D.D. 


JHiiBir, 


The  Song  of  the  Zephyrs. 
The  Song  of  the  Wood  Nymphs. 
The  Song  of  the  Robin. 
I've  a  Home  in  the  Yalley. 


0  Sing  to  Me. 

The  Lily  Bells. 

Sing,  Sing  to  Me. 

Why  do  Summer  Roses  Fade  1 


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jCDctJicntcti  to  i^Svs.  Cnvolinc  5[®ilson. 

WRITTEN   AND  COMPOSED   BY  ANNA  BLACKWELL. 
Allegretto  Sclicrzando. 


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A    SHORT    PAPER    ON    PROCTER. 


B  T     K 


8  TODDARD. 


Bryan  "Waller  Proctkr  (Barry  Cornwall)  w.as 
a  schoolfellDW  of  Byron'.s  at-Uarrow  ;  while  the 
young  lord  was  enjoyin<jr  himself,  as  a  nobleman 
and  rich  heir  should  do,  tlie  poor  connnoner  was 
studying  law,  which  nobody,  tliat  ever  went 
through  it,  ever  tliought  of  calling  enjoyment. 
Byron  had  emerged  from  the  obscurity  of  his 
noble  station,  and  was  in  the  full  blaze  of  popu- 
larity, before  Procter  made  his  humble  appear- 
ance in  the  world  of  letters,  a  new  candidate  for 
poetic  honors.  His  first  publication  or  volume  of 
"  Dramatic  Sketches"  was  favorably  received  by 
the  public,  and  kindly  reviewed  by  most  of  the 
critical  reviews  of  the  time.  Lambe,  Hazlett, 
Southey  and  others  had  lately  been  calling  at- 
tention to  the  writers  of  the  Elizabethan  age,  and 
the  people  were  begiiuiing  to  appreciate  again 
the  pathos  and  sweetness  of  those  glorious  old 
masters  who  looked  deeper  into  the  iiuman  heart 
than  men  had  ever  done  before  or  are  likely  to 
do  again.  Procter  was  their  disciple  and  follower. 
His  "Sketches"  were  full  of  fine  natural  touches 
and  lines,  whicli,  like  those  of  A  pelles,  bespeak  tlie 
hand  of  the  master.  The  Edinburgh  Review  for 
January,  1S20,  speaking  of  his  "Sicilian  Story," 
uses  the  following  language  :  "  His  style  is  chiefly 
moulded  and  his  versification  modulated  on  the 
pattern  of  Shakspeare,  and  the  other  dramatists 
of  that  glorious  age,  particularly  Marlow,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger.  He  lias  also 
copied  son.-ething  from  Milton  and  Ben  Jonson' 
and  the  amorous  cavaliers  of  the  Usurpation,  and 
then  passing  disdainfully  over  all  the  intermediate 
writers,  has  flung  himself,  fairly  into  the  arms  of 
Lord  fiyron,  Coleridge,  Wordsworth  and  Leigh 
Hunt.  *  *  ■*  It  is  obvious  that  a  man  may 
imitate  Shakspeare  and  his  great  compeers, 
without  presuming  to  rival  tlieir  variety  or  uni. 
versality.  This  is  the  case  with  Barry  Cornwall. 
He  does  not  meddle  with  the  thunders  and  light- 
nings of  the  mighty  poet:  and  still  less  with  his 
boundless  humor  and  fresh  springing  merriment. 
He  has  nothing  to  do  with  Falstaff"  or  Silence;  and 
does  not  venture  himself  into  the  lists  with  Mac- 
beth, or  Lear,  or  Othello.  It  is  the  tender,  ihe 
Bweet,  the  fanciful  only  that  he  ventures  to  copy  ; 


the  girlish  innocence  and  lovely  sorrow  of  Juliet, 
Imogen,  I'erdetta  or  Viola — the  encharr.ed  soli- 
tude of   Prospero  and  his  daugher — tlie  etherial 
loves  and  jealousies  of  Oberon  and  Titania,  and 
those  other   magical  scenes  all  perfumed  with 
love  and  poetry,  and   breathing  the  spirit  of  a 
celestial  spring,  which  lie  scattered  in  every  part 
of  his  writings.  The  genius  of  Fletcher  is  perhaps 
more  akin  to  his  muse  of  imitation  than  tlie  soar- 
ing  and    "extravagant   spirit"   of    Shakspeare; 
and  we  think  we  can  trace,  in  more  places   than 
one,  the  impression  which  his  fancy  has  received 
from  the  patiint  suffering  and  sweet   desolation 
of  Aspasia  in  his  "Maid's  Tragedy."     It  is  the 
youthful  Mdton   only  that  he   has  presumed   to 
copy — the  Milton  of  Lycidas,  and    Coinus,  and 
the  Arcades,  and  the  Seraphic  Hymns,  not  the 
lofty  and  austere  Milton  of  the  Paradise.     From 
Jonson,  AVe  think  he  has  imitated  some  of  those 
exquisite    songs    and   lyrical    pieces    wliich   lie 
buried  in  the  rubbish  of  his  masques,  which  con- 
tinued to  be  the  models  for  all  such  writings  down 
to  the  period  of  the  Restoration.    *     *     *     There 
is  a  great  ileal  of  the  diction  of  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,  and  some  imitation  of  their  beauties  » 
but   we  think  the  natural    bent  of  his  genius  is 
more  hke   that  of  Leigh    Hunt   than  any   other 
author.     He  has  the  same  play  of  f  mcy.  and  the 
same    capacity    of  deep    and    delicate    feeling, 
tojrether  with  the  same  relish  for  the  old  Italian 
poetry,  and  the  plain  and  .-imple  pathos  of  Dante 
and    Boccacio — we  doubt,  however,  whether   he 
has  equal  force  of  original  talent,  or  whether  ho 
could  have  written  any  thing  s<i  good,  on  ilie  whole, 
as  tlie  beautiful  story  of  l-iimuii.     But  he  has  bet- 
ter taste  and  better  judgment — or  what  is  perhaps 
but  saying  the  same  thing,  he  has  less  aflectatioO 
and  far  less  conceit."     This  critique  was  doubt- 
less from  the  pen  of  JetTrey,  and  in  the  main  is 
appreciative  and  just;  though   we  can   not  help 
demurring  to  the  charge  of  Imitation  so  [xrtina. 
ciously  set  forth  in  the  indictment.     For  t>ur  part, 
we  are  aj  t  lo  fancy  that  a  man  of  Procter's  genius 
rather  resembles  certain  authors  in  certain  phases 
of  their  character  and  writings,  than  that  he  del.be- 
rately  imitates  them.    The  stigma  of  imilatioa 


A  SHORT  PAPER  ON  PROCTER, 


13  easily  and  too  often  falsely  stamped  on  meif  of 
kindred  minds.  "  There  is  a  mountain  in  Macedon, 
and  a  mountain  in  Wales."  There  is,  certainly, 
great  resemblance  between  Procter  and  Hunt, 
but  it  is  rather  in  subject  than  style :  Hunt  is 
pleasant,  careless,  affected,  and  blip-shod ;  one 
can  hardly  trust  hirn  in  serious  passages,  for  fear 
of  smiling :  his  face  is  always  on  the  smirk. 
Procter  is  careful  in  his  diffusion  ;  sweetly  plea- 
sant, serious  and  solemn  in  his  delicate  affectations, 
and  never,  in  the  sense  of  Hunt,  slip-shod.  Hunt 
has  more  exuberance  and  animal  spirits ;  Proc- 
ter m.ore  pathos  and  refined  feeling.  If  Procter 
could  not  have  written  "  Rimini,"  Hunt  could 
not  have  written  "The  English  Songs"  of  Procter. 
Both  are  beautiful  and  unique  in  their  way;  and 
the  world  is  wide  enough  for  them  without  jost- 
ling. 

Procter  must  have  been  a  careful  student  of 
old  books  in  liis  time;  his  language  and  style 
betrays  it ;  above  all,  his  little  songs,  which  are 
undeniably  the  finest  of  modern  times,  always  ex- 
cepting the  best  of  Burns.  One  can  hardly  tell 
one  of  his  best  songs  from  one  of  Shakspeare's,  it 
is  so  full  of  the  very  soul  of  poetry :  passion  and 
lyrical  feeling  are  interblended  like  scent  and 
color  in  the  heart  of  a  violet.  Many  of  them  are 
running  over  with  vague  emotions,  and  delicate 
sensibilities.  Kings  and  queens,  pages  and 
princesses,  lads  and  lassies,  all  hearts  and  stations 
find  a  fit  utterance  in  his  magical  lines.  Some- 
times he  is  as  clear  as  noonday ;  sometimes  as 
shadowy  and  unsubstantial  as  a  dream  ;  but  al- 
ways poetical  and  human.  Now  he  will  sing  you 
a  drinking  ditty  that  Sir  John  Suckling  would 
have  delighted  to  father ;  anon  a  love  poem 
worthy  of  Catullus,  and  as  chaste  as  Paradise. 
He  writes  in  all  moods,  and  under  all  inspirations  : 
and  is  probably,  in  his  songs,  the  most  dramatic 
wiiter  since  Shakspeare. 

Here  is  one  of  the  first  that  we  lay  our  hands 
on.  Of  course  you  are  all  aware  of  the  festivities 
of  olden  times — tlie  misletoe  bough  that  was  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling — and  tiie  custom  of 
kissing  the  maids  beneatli  it.  Happy  custom  ! 
not  yet  obsolete  in  the  rural  districts  of  England. 
Read  this  little  song,  and  guess  who  wrote  it.  No ! 
it  was  not  Shakspeare. 

TUK    MISI.ETOE. 

Wlien  winter  nights  grow  long, 

And  winds  without  blow  eold, 
We  sit  in  a  ring  roond  llie  warm  wood  fire. 

And  listen  to  stories  old  ! 
And  we  try  to  look  grave  (as  maids  should  be) 
When  the  men  bring  in  boughs  of  the  Laurel-tree, 

Oh,  the  Laurel,  the  evergreen  tree, 

The  poets  hate  laurels,— and  why  not  vie  ? 


How  pleasant  when  night  falls  down, 

And  hides  the  wintry  son, 
To  see  them  come  in  to  the  blazing  fire, 

And  know  that  their  work  is  done  ; 
Whilst  many  bring  in,  with  a  laugh  or  rhyme. 
Green  branches  of  Holly  for  Christmas  time  ! 

Oh  the  Holly,  the  bright  green  Holly, 

It  tells  (like  a  tongue)  that  the  times  are  jolly  I 

Sometimes,  (in  our  grave  house 

Observe,  this  happeneth  not:) 
But,  at  times,  the  evergreen  laurel  boughs. 

And  the  holly  are  all  forgot ! 
And  then  !  what  then  ?  why,  the  men  laugh  low. 
And  hang  up  a  branch  of — the  Misletoe ! 

Oh  brave  is  the  Laurel  !  and  brave  is  the  Holly ! 

But  the  JlUsUtoe  banisheth  melancholy  ! 

Ah,  nobody  knows,  nor  ever  shall  knoui, 

What  is  done  under  the  Misletoe  ! 

Here  is  another,  but  of  a  very  different  cast ; 
sombre  and  dark,  and  yet  right  jolly  withal.  The 
subject  is  as  old  as  life.  It  is  Death  and  the  rest 
he  brings.  An  attempt  to  embody  and  personify 
the  King  of  Terrors,  the  monarch  of  a  greater 
realm  than  ever  Alexander  wept  for  in  his  wild- 
est moments.  The  subject  is  deep,  awful,  and 
magnificent,  not  repulsive.  A  lesser  poet  would 
have  pictured  a  skeleton,  skull,  ribs ,  cross-bones 
and  all.  Procter  leaves  that  to  the  reader's  im- 
agination, and  only  gives  the  outline  of  a  dusky 
old  king,  pledging  his  subjects  in  the  wine  of 
forgetfulness : 

KING   DEATH. 

King  Death  was  a  rare  old  fellow  I 

He  sat  where  no  sun  could  shine, 
And  lifted  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  poured  out  the  coal  black  wine. 
Hurrah  !  for  the  coal  black  wine  I 

There  came  to  him  many  a  maiden. 

Whose  eyes  had  forgot  to  shine  ; 
And  widows  with  grief  o'erladen. 

From  a  drnughl  of  his  sleepy  wine. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  coal  black  wine ! 

The  Schnlar  left  all  his  learning  ; 

The  Poet  his  fancied  woes  ; 
And  the  Beauty  her  bloom  returning. 

Like  life  to  the  fading  lose. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  coal  black  wine  ! 

All  came  to  the  royal  old  f.-ilow, 

Who  laughed  till  his  eyes  dropped  brine. 
As  he  gave  them  his  hand  so  yellow. 

But  pledged  them  in  Death's  black  wine. 
Hurrah— Hurrah ! 
Hurrah!  for  the  coal  black  wine  ! 

Here  is  something  as  sweet  as  the  life  of  a 
child,  fresh,  simple  and  touching.  If  you  have 
ever  loved  and  lost  a  little  wingless  angel,  whose 
voice  was  more  thai>  words  to  you,  I  fancy  yoti 
will  like  it.  How  pretty  it  is  !  Read  it  slowly, 
and  with  due  emphasis,  as  if  you  felt  it,  and  you 
will  before  you  get  through  with  it. 


TO    THE   GENIUS   OF   POETRY. 


5 


THE    LITTLE   VOICE. 

Once  there  was  .t  little  Voicp, 

Merry  as  the  month  of  May, 
Tli:U  dill  cry  '•  Rejoice!  Rejoice  .'" 

Now — tis  How II  away  ! 

Sweet  it  was,  and  very  clear. 
Chasing  every  tliou>;lit  of  pain, 

Summer!  sIliII  I  ever  hear 
Such  a  voice  again  ? 

I  have  pondered  all  night  long 
Listening  for  as  soft  a  sonnd  ; 

But  so  sweet  and  clear  a  song 
Never  have  I  found  ! 

I  would  give  a  mine  of  gold. 
Could  [  hear  that  little  Voice. — 

Could  I,  as  inda)5  of  old, 
At  a  sound  rejoice  !  — 

But  perhaps  one  of  tlie  most  remarkable  traits 
in  Procter  is  the  home  feeling  in  many  of  his 
poems.  They  seem  to  have  been  written  in  the 
iniiUt  of  his  f.imily,  around  the  fireside  of  a  win- 
ter night.  The  "  Song  for  .Adalaide"  is  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  nursery  lyrics  in  the  world, 
just  such  a  song  as  a  happy  father  would  sing  to 
his  wife.  '■  The  Prayer  in  Sickness''  and  "  the 
Petition  to  Time"  can  hardly  be  read,  without 
loving  the  man;  such  poems  prove  conclusively 
that  the  humblest  emotions  and  feelings  are  poet- 
ical in  tiie  hands  of  a  true  artist.  Nothing  is  too 
mean  for  the  poet  to  glorify  and  exalt;  but  most 
common  things  must  be  exalted,  to  be  glorified 
and  made  poetical.  A  dull  Flemish  exactness  to 
tlie  mere  outside  trutli  of  objects  is  not,  nor  ever 
can  be,  artistic.  This  was  the  great  mistake  of 
Wordsworth  in  the  beginning  of  his  career,  when 
he  wrote  "Betty  Foys"  and  "Peter  Rells;"  and  it 
would  have  killed  him  if  he  had  not  had  genius 
enough  to  retrieve  himself  in  other  respects  :  his 


be.st  poems  are  contradictions   of  his  own  theo- 
ries— 

A   PETITION   TO   TIME. 

Tovich  US  gently,  Time  1 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently — as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  iiuict  dream  ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  we. 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three — 
(One  is  lost, — an  angel,  Hod 
To  the  azure  overhead  !) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We've  not  prond  nor  soaring  wings: 
Our  ambition,  our  content 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Hnmhlo  voyagers  are  we.. 
O'er  Life's  dim  unsounded  sea 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ;  — 
Touch  US  ffcntly,  gentle  Timel 

AVe  have  not  left  ourselves  room  to  copy  any 
of  his  lyrical  poeme,^er  se,  which  we  hardly  dare 
believe  the  reader  would  think  equal  to  those  we 
have  quoted.  A  pure  lyric, — like  one  or  two  of  the 
best  of  Shakspeare's,  such  as  "  Hark  !  hark  !  the 
lark."  "  Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred,"  and  "Un- 
der the  Greenwood  Tree,"  is  rarely  appreciated 
by  the  mass' of  poetical  readers,  not  to  say  poets 
themselves.  It  is  considered  too  small  and  tri- 
fling :  but  the  trifle  however  is  a  diamond.  The 
same  remark  will  apply  to  the  best  songs  of 
Burns  ;  and  to  one  or  two  of  the  last  poems  of 
Tennyson.  "The  Cradle  Song,"  for  instance,  in 
the  new  editions  of  the  Princess."  In  conclu- 
sion, let  us  reccommend  all  our  readers  who  love 
fine  poetry  (and  who  does  not '()  to  read  the 
English  songs  and  other  small  poems  of  Barry 
Cornwall. 


TO    TIIE    GENIUS    OF    POETRY, 


Thonserapli  voiced,  bright  child  of  heaven, 
To  whom  the  godlike  power  is  given, 
Life's  misty  path  to  hne  with  light. 
And  gem  with  start  grief's  curtain'd  night ; 
Unveiling  to  prophetic  eye 
The  secret  fount  of  haimony  : 
Thee  I  invoke. 

Unseen,  unheard  ihou  art  hy  those 

In  who^  dim  souls  no  vision  glows 

Of  something  yet  to  be  possest, 

Tde  dream  of  which  makes  mortals  bleit; 


And  few  will  on  thy  pinions  rise. 
To  grander,  glorious  beaming  skieii. 
Bright  child  of  heaven. 


BntT,  thou  angel-guide,  with  thee. 

All  railiant  in  thy  purity, 

Will  leave  the  laden,  earth-clad  throng, 

With  all  their  ills,  their  strife,  their  wrong. 

To  tre.-id  that  starry  spirit  way, 

Soal'teachingin  its  mystery, 

Tboa  child  of  heaven. 


MONEY    AT    INTEREST 


BY      MISS      MUNEOE 


"  I  SHALL  he  very  happy — won't  you  ? — when 
we  have  a  little  money  laid  by,"  said  Philip  Clay- 
ton's pretty  wife,  as  she  poured  out  tea  for  him 
in  tlieir  cheerful  little  parlor,  through  whose 
open  window  stole  the  soft  breath  of  summer, 
laden  with  the  fragrance  of  the  sweet-briar  that 
fringed  the  grass-plot,  and  the  honeysuckle  that 
draperied  the  rustic  porch. 

"  I  am  very  happy  now,"  replied  Clayton, 
smiling,  as  he  glanced  from  the  fair  face  that 
looked  on  him  to  the  laughing  boy  who  was  romp- 
ing with  a  spaniel  on  the  grass. 

"  Well,  and  so  am  I,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton,  smil- 
ing also  :  it  would  have  been  strange  if  she  was 
not  happy,  with  a  husband  who  loved  iier  de- 
votedly, and  no  sorrow  or  danger  glooming  on  the 
sunny  horizon  of  her  life.  "  But  you  know  what 
I  mean — it  will  be  a  great  comfort  and  satisfac- 
tion when  we  are  able  to  lay  up  something  as  a 
provision  for  the  future.  And  think  what  a  plea- 
sure it  will  be  to  find  the  interest  coming  in  at 
once  to  help  us!" 

"  No,  DO  1"  laughed  Clayton  ;  "  to  carry  out  the 
thing  properly  we  must  not  spend  the  interest, 
but  lay  that  up  also  to  accumulate  into  a  large 
fortune  by  the  time  we  are  three  or  fourscore 
years  old.  But  come,  Hetty,  let  us  not  concern 
ourselves  so  much  about  a  future  that  may  never 
come.  If  it  does  come,  God  will,  I  trust,  enable 
us  to  provide  for  it  ;  but  the  blessings  of  the 
present  are  ours  to  enjoy  and  be  thankful  for.  So 
give  me  another  cup,  and  then  let  me  hear  that 
song  you  sung  me  yesterday;  it  has  been  echo- 
ing in  my  ears  all  day ;  and  every  line  I  wrote 
seemed  to  be  accommodating  itself  to  the  tune." 

So  the  song  was  sung,  and  others  followed, 
drawing  the  child  dancing  in  from  his  gambols  to 
hear  the  music,  and  the  evening  passed  pleasant- 
ly as  it  was  wont  to  do,  making  Mrs.  Clayton  for- 
get, in  the  happiness  of  the  present, her  anjfiety 
for  the  future. 

Years  passed  by,  and  found  and  left  as  great 
and  yet  greater  happiness  at  the  little  cottage — 
for  other  childish  voices  made  its  walls  resound 
with  merriment,  and  not  one  blessing  had  been 
recalled,  to  leave  a  shadow  on  remembrance ; 


and,  moreover,  the  cherished  wish  of  Henrietta 
seemed  on  the  point  of  being  realized  ;  for  the 
first  five  hundred  dollars  were  very  nearly  amass- 
ed, by  their  care  and  frugality,  out  of  Philip's 
salary  from  the  baniiing-house  where  he  was  a 
clerk;  and  already  liis  over-anxious  wife  reckoned 
the  interest,  as  the  small  yet  welcome  addition  to 
their  income  which  should  enable  the  second  five 
hundred  to  be  more  quickly  collected. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  clear  stream  which 
glided  quietly  through  the  village  stood  a  house, 
whose  inmates  had  known  far  less  of  prosperity 
than  was  the  portion  of  the  Claytons.  Yet  there 
had  come  a  briglitness  over  their  prospects ;  and 
after  many  misfortunes,  Richard  Allen  thought 
that  the  clouds  had  passed  at  length,  and  the  long 
delayed  sunshine  was  gleaming  forth  ;  for  a  situa- 
tion as  clerk  promised  him  not  merely  a  compe- 
tence, but  the  means  of  setting  his  son,  a  fine 
boy  of  fifteen,  forward  in  the  world.  He  had 
been  but  six  months  in  his  situation,  and  twice 
that  time  in  the  neighborhood,  where  he  was  of 
course  but  little  known,  though  that  little  was 
calculated  to  win  respect ;  and  of  all,  Clayton 
perhaps  knew  and  liked  him  best. 

One  evening  they  were  leaning  over  the  bridge 
that  spanned  the  stream,  watching  Frank  Allen 
as  he  altered,  and  worked  at,  and  launched,  and 
guided  on  its  course,  the  little  boat  which  Harry 
Clayton — six  years  his  junior — was  unable 
to  make  sail  down  the  stream,  and  they 
smiled  to  see  how  the  child  clapped  his  hands 
with  delight,  and  how  pleased  Frank  was  to  aid 
the  ignorance  and  awkwardness  of  his  little  com- 
panion. 

"Strange,"  said  Allen,  "that  as  men  we  should 
lose  the  feelings  which  seem  inherent  in  us  in 
childhood  and  in  boyhood.  In  those  years  our 
first  impulse  is  to  help  those  who  are  weaker  or 
more  inexperienced  than  ourselves.  But  as  time 
passes,  those  feelings  die  away  and  are  forgotten; 
and  how  seldom  it  is  that  we  find  men  pleased 
and  eager  to  extend  a  helping  hand  to  those  who 
are  less  fortunate  than  themselves !  How  much 
more  frequently  do  they  appear  to  exult  in  their 
advantages  all  the  more  that  others  are  without 


MONEY    AT    INTEREST. 


them  !  And  if  they  do  aid  a  feebler  brother,  is 
it  not  usually  done  coldly  and  reluctantly,  as  an 
acknowleiljcfd  but  disagreeable  duty,  instead  of 
with  the  pleasure  and  alacrity  which  character- 
ized our  boyliood's  exertions  to  help  those  who 
needed  ?" 

"There  are  exceptions,"  replied  Clayton,  "and 
I  would  wish  to  think  they  are  numerous." 

" So  would  I,"  said  Allen,  "and  they  ought  to 
be  numerous  ;  for  surely  every  year  of  our  lives 
shows  us  more  and  more  how  dependent  men  are 
on  tlieir  fellow-creatures,  in  some  shape  or  an- 
other: it  seems  designed  to  teach  us  mutual 
kindness,  charity,  and  forbearance ;  but  the  lesson 
is  too  often  unheeded,  and  sometimes  read  back- 
wards to  serve  a  different  end.  But  don't  think 
me  a  grumbler,  or  a  misanthrope,  because  1  say 
this.  I  know  there  is  much  good  in  the  world  ; 
but  I  cannot  help  saying  that  there  might  be,  and 
ought  to  be,  much  more." 

"  J  suspect  we  need  only  look  into  our  own 
hearts  U<  own  the  truth  of  that,"  sai<l  Clayton, 
emiling.  "  But  here  comes  Mrs.  Allen,  and  I  know 
my  good  little  housewife  has  been  impatiently 
waiting  for  us  this  hour  past." 

And  so  she  had  been  ;  for  with  all  her  prudence 
and  frugality,  Mrs.  Clayton  was  very  proud  of  iier 
cakes  and  her  preserves,  and  the  Aliens  were  at 
all  times  among  her  most  welcome  guests.  There 
were  but  themselves  this  evening  ;  and  long  was 
it  remembered,  and  often  in  after  days  Henrietta 
would  tell  how,  when  they  were  going  away. 
Mrs.  ."Mien  went  back  to  kiss  the  children  a  se- 
cond time  as  they  slept,  and  how  Mr.  Allen  said, 
as  he  shook  her  hand, — 

"  What  a  very,  very  happy  evening  we  have 
passed  !" 

She  and  Philip  stood  at  the  door  until  their 
friends  crossed  the  little  bridge  homewards  :  they 
watched  the  crescent  moon  sink  behind  the  dis- 
tant hills,  and  then,  closing  the  door  upon  the 
dimmer  light  wdiich  gleamed  in  starry  rays  on 
bough  and  stream,  there  soon  was  rest  and  silence 
in  the  cottage,  a8  everywhere  around. 

It  might  have  been  two  hours  after  when  the 
loud  barking  of  a  dog  awakened  Clayton.  His 
first  idea  was  that  it  was  broad  daylight,  so  bright 
a  light  was  shining  through  the  window.  But  in 
another  moment  he  was  conscious  that  the  glow 
was  redder  than  that  of  the  reddest  morning. 
And  springing  to  the  window,  he  saw  flames 
bursting  from  the  Aliens'  house. 

Clayton  hurried  to  the  spot.  A  crowd  was 
beginning  to  gather  around  the  house,  but  its  in- 
mates still  slept.  Efforts  were  made  to  arouse 
them  to  a  knowledge  of  their  danger,  wliich  be- 
came every  instant  more  imminent,  so  rapidly 


the  flames  spread  and  strengthened,  and  the  door 
was  forced  open  at  the  same  moment  that  a  wild 
shriek  rose  from  within  ;  but  suffocating  smoke 
rolled  through  the  doorway,  and  flumes  darlfd 
their  forked  tongues  round  the  staircase,  and 
nobody  dared  to  enter. 

Mrs.  Allen  was  speedily  seen  at  a  window. 
"A  ladder! — a  ladder!"  was  loudly  called  for 
but  there  was  none  at  hand;  and  while  some  ran 
off  to  the  nearest  place  to  get  one,  the  urdiappy 
woman  cast  herself  down  upon  the  gravelled  walk 
to  escape  the  fiery  death  she  dreaded.  She  was 
taken  up  insensible,  and  carried,  to  the  cottage 
which  she  had  quitted  in  health  and  happiness  so 
few  hours  previously.  In  another  minute  Allen- 
who  had  gone  to  arouse  his  son,  came  with  him 
to  another  window.  The  ladder  had  arrived,  and 
was  quickly  planted  at  it,  and  he  was  observed 
desiring  Frank  to  descend. 

"  Allen  !  Allen  !  save  yourself;  your  wife  has 
escaped  ! '  cried  Clayton. 

The  last  words  never  reached  the  ear  they 
were  addressed  to  ;  but  were  lost  in  Allen's  an- 
swering cry  of  "No,  no  !— my  wife,  my  wife!' 
as  he  disappeared  to  seek  the  partner  of  his 
many  years'  wanderings  and  misfortunes. 

"  Allen  !  Allen  I"  was  echoed  in  twenty  voices 
to  call  him  back.  But  a  crash  followed— some 
part  of  the  flooring  had  fallen  in,  and  he  was 
never  seen  again. 

Wildly  the  flames  rose  and  fell,  despite  the 
quantities  of  water  from  the  stream  whicli  had 
been  so  lavisldy  cast  upon  them,  flickering,  and 
dancing,  and  soaring  up  towards  the  sky,  whose 
stars  were  now  invisible;  and  casting  abroad, 
red  radiance  on  the  crowd,  the  wide,  smooth  mea- 
dows and  the  waters  of  the  quiet  stream.  Frank 
Alien  sat  on  the  grass,  gazing  on  the  liery  mass 
which  blazed,  and  hissed,  and  crackled,  above  the 
form  he  had  so  loved  and  honored  Just  old  enough 
to  feel  to  its  full  extent  the  anguish  of  that  moment 
without  the  capability  of  endurance  which  added 
years  might  have  imparted,  he  watched  the  re- 
morseless flames  with  an  inten-ity  of  grief  which 
forbade  all  attempts  at  consolation,  ami  resisted 
every  endeavor  to  withdraw  him  from  the  spot. 

The  night  passed,  the  fire  began  to  die  out,  and 
the  rising  sun  found  a  heap  of  smouldering  ruins 
where  he  had  left  a  happy  dwelling;  whde  beneatii 
them  lay  what  had  then  been  a  living  and  breath- 
ing form,  in  full  health,  and  all  the  strength  and 
energy  of  manliood's  prime.  Then  Clayton  led  away 
tlie  sorrowin"'  boy  to  his  own  home,  where  for  the 
first  time  ho  learned  that  his  mother,  whom  he  had 
thi)Ught  safe  and  well,  was  suffering  greatly — it 
soon  proved  dying — beneath  the  same  nxif ;  and 
the   dawn   of  another   day  found   Frank   Allen 


MONEY   AT   INTEREST. 


nlone — an  orphan  and  destitute,  without  a  rela- 
tive or  a  friend  from  whom  he  had  u  right  to 
elaim  protection  or  assistance. 

But  this  thought  did  not  at  first  come  to  grieve 
him,  for  all  C(nisideratious  of  self  were  lost  in 
deep  and  overwhelming  sorrow  ;  and  he  alone 
was  Ciireless  of  his  future  lot,  while  the  whole 
villnge  was  busy  talking  over  it,  and  wondering 
wluit  it  would  be.  There  had  been  some  doubt, 
too,  about  the  funeral,  when  it  was  known  that 
the  Aliens  left  nothing  ;  but  Clayton  set  that  at 
rest  at  once  by  charging  himself  with  the  ex- 
penses ;  and  when  that  day  was  over,  Frank 
Allen's  fate  was  the  undivided  subject  of  conver- 
Bation. 

It  was  a  long  walk  which  Philip  Clayton  took 
that  night.  \V hen  he  returned,  he  found  Frank 
Allen  still  watching  the  heap  of  ruins  with  which 
he  thought  all  the  happiness  of  his  life  had  fallen 
for  ever.  And  even  so  Clayton  mused  ;  his  own 
Harry,  yet  younger  and  more  helpless,  might  have 
mourned  over  the  desolation  of  his  home,  and 
been  cast  upon  the  coldness  and  the  charity  of 
strangers.  But  his  mind  had  been  made  up  fully 
during  that  long  and  solitary  walk,  though  indeed 
the  purpose  had  been  gathering  there  stronger 
and  stronger  all  the  while. 

Yet  he  feared  to  tell  his  gentle,  loving  Hen- 
rietta, for  he  knew  that  though  she  had  tended 
Mrs.  Allen  as  though  she  had  been  a  sister,  and 
wept  with  Frank,  and  strove  to  soothe  and  com- 
fort his  grief  with  all  a  woman's  tenderness  and 
softness,  still  money  was  too  dear  to  her  to  be 
easily  parted  with,  even  for  the  sake  of  one  whom 
she  pitied  and  sympathized  with  so  deeply.  But 
I'hilip  was  resolved  ;  and  though  on  hearing  that 
he  was  going  to  pay  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars as  an  apprentice-fee  for  Frank,  to  secure  for 
him  proper  instruction  in  the  line  for  which  his 
father  destined  him,  his  wife  shed  more  tears 
than  words  of  his  had  ever  caused  her  to  shed 
before,  and  reproached  him  bitterly  with  throw- 
ing away  the  mouey  they  had  so  slowly  gather- 
ed, he  still  was  firm  ;  for  the  memory  of  Allen's 
words  came  as  a  hitter  reproach  to  human  nature, 
in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  share. 

"  You  ought  to  think  of  your  children  !"  said 
Henrietta,  pre.'^sing  the  youngest  to  her  bosom,  as 
if  to  guard  it  from  some  evil  which  his  father's 
act  was  drawing  down  upon  it. 

"  I  do  think  of  my  children,"  replied  Philip, 
■with  much  emotion,  as  he  took  the  other  little 
one  in  his  arms,  and  glanced  out  at  the  field 
opposite,  where  Harry  was  vainly  striving  to 
draw  Frank  from  his  sorrowful  contemplation  of 
the  sad  dark  spot  before  them.  "  I  do  think  of 
my  children  ;  and  that,  if  there  were  nothing  else, 


would  bid  me  act  as  I  am  doing.  For  I  think, 
Hetty,  that  one  of  our  beloved  ones  might  have 
been  left  desolate  as  Frank  has  been.  And  I 
think  also,  Hetty,  that  we  know  not  how  much 
they  may  yet  be  dependent  on  the  kindness  and 
bounty  of  others.  And  this  thought  alone  would 
make  me  do  to  Frank  as  I  would  should  be  done 
unto  my  own  children." 

"  But  this  will  only  make  them  poorer,  and 
more  likely  to  be  so  dependent,"  urged  Mrs.  Clay- 
ton, in  a  tone  of  feebler  remonstrance. 

"  Oh,  Hetty,"  said  her  husband,  "  I  wonder  thafc 
with  so  much  of  love  there  can  be  such  devotion 
to  Mammon  in  that  kind  little  heart  I  Do  you 
forget  that  poverty  and  riches  depend  on  a  might- 
ier will  than  ours  T' 

"  Then  I  suppose  it  must  be  so,"  sighed  Hen- 
rietta. "  But  it  must  be  a  long  while  yet  before 
we  can  have  any  money  out  at  interest." 

Clayton  did  not  answer  ;  but  he  had  learned  to 
know  this  was  indeed  a  bitter  disappointment. 
However,  the  letters  were  written,  inquiries  were 
made,  and  by  using  every  exertion  he  got  Frank 
most  advantageously  situated  in  a  mercantile 
house,  in  the  East  India  trade. 

Five  or  six  months  aftei",  Clayton  received  a 
letter  by  some  encountered  vessel,  full  of  the 
outpourings  of  a  young  heart's  gratitude ;  and  a 
year  after  there  came  another,  but  it  was  the  last 
In. another  year  Clayton  wrote  to  the  owners, 
when  he  heard  that  the  ship  had  been  chartered 
and  employed  in  going  from  one  part  of  India  to 
another,  and  had  not  returned,  but  that  no  acci- 
dent to  Frank  Allen  hail  been  reported.  So  a3 
his  own  letters  to  Frank  remained  unanswered, 
Clayton  supposed  that  his  young  charge  had 
grown  weary  of  gratitude.  Yet,  though  Hen- 
rietta sometimes  drily  intimated  that  it  was  an 
unmerited  return  for  all  his  kindness,  Philip 
never  regretted  the  part  which  he  had  acted,  for 
he  wanted  not  gratitude  and  thanks,  but  merely 
the  consciousness  of  doing  right,  and  the  approval 
of  his  own  heart.  This  was  pleasanter  to  him 
than  the  gratification  of  her  darling  wish — the 
having  money  at  interest,  which  had  been  at  last 
attained — was  to  his  pretty,  gentle,  and  amiable, 
but  anxious  and  calculating  wife. 

How  quickly  years  glide  away,  and  how  soon 
people  are  forgotten  when  they  are  no  longer 
seen !  It  took  little  time  for  a  Frank  to  pass  from 
everyone's  remembrance  but  the  Claytons'.  And 
then  Clayton  moved  to  a  distant  city,  where  a 
higher  salary  was  given  him  by  another  bank, 
and  he  and  his  were  soon  forgotten. 

The  fleeting  years  were  pleasant  to  the  Clay- 
tons. Their  children  grew  up  fair  and  promising. 
Already  Harry  was  in  a  solicitor's  office ;  the 


MONEY    AT    INTEREST. 


younger  boy,  William,  was  to  be  a  medical  man, 
and  the  little  Violet  was  as  lovely  and  modest 
as  her  name-flower.  And  Henrietta  ha<l  another 
happiness— they  had  laid  by  many  hundreds 
now ;  and  it  was  not  merely  the  usual  interest 
that  was  received  for  them,  for  Clayton  had  been 
admitted  to  a  share  in  the  concern,  and  the  sum 
that  he  invested  returned  him  a  per  centage  far 
larger  than  that  given  to  depositors. 

But  sunshine  cannot  last  for  ever  The  first 
cloud  was  a  change  in  Clayton's  health.  A 
severe  illness,  followed  by  a  stroke  of  paralysis, 
left  him  with  his  powers  of  mind  unimpaired, 
but  so  infirm  as  to  preclude  all  hope  of  future  ex- 
ertion. Then  what  comfort  it  was  that  they  had 
so  well  guarded  against  an  evil  day.  And  what 
a  satisfaction  that  Clayton  had  obtained  the 
shares  in  the  stock,  now  that  he  could  do  nothing 
to  make  an  income;  and  the  mere  interest  of 
their  savings  would  have  been  very  little  for  their 
support.  But  within  a  couple  of  years  the  bank 
broke,  and  all  was  lost,  the  shares  which  had 
seemed  such  a  blessing  only  serving  to  make 
ruin  more  complete;  for  he  was  involved  in  the 
liabilities,  and  the  policy  of  insurance,  which  had 
always  rendered  his  mind  easy  on  his  wife's 
account,  was  taken  from  theui. 

Still  there  were  their  sons — Harry,  two-and- 
twenty,  and  William,  seventeen — who  were  eager 
to  exert  themselves  for  their  parents  and  sister. 
The  younger's  prospects  of  course  were  altered ; 
but  a  situation  in  the  custom  bouse  was  obtained, 
enabling  him  to  be  at  once  an  assistance  to  the 
family.  And  Harry  was  in  high  hopes  that  he 
should  get  into  practice  as  an  attorney,  for  which 
he  was  now  qualified.  He  appeared  to  be  doing 
so  for  a  few  months  ;  but  he  shortly  after  met 
with  a  severe  fall,  which  inflicted  a  spinal  injury, 
with  which  he  might  linger  on  for  years,  but  only 
to  grieve  over  the  thought  of  being  a  burthen  to 
those  lie  hoped  to  have  supported. 

William's  small  salary  was  now  their  only  re- 
source. To  add  to  it,  Violet  went  out  as  a  teacher, 
though  her  youth  made  her  reward  but  trifling. 
So  passed  another  year,  and  still  Harry,  at  near- 
ly four-and-tweiity,  lay  a  dead  weight  on  the  strug- 
gling efforts  of  his  young  brother  and  sister, 
without  a  hope  of  recovery  or — he  would  often 
have  said,  but  for  fear  of  grieving  those  who 
loved  him — even  a  hope  of  death.  Clayton  re- 
tained much  of  his  former  cheerfulness,  and  strove 
to  sup[)ort  the  spirits  and  courage  of  his  son  under 
this  painful  trial  ;  while  for  liis  sake  also  the  fond 
mother  checked  her  own  repinings,  and  strove  to 
give  to  their  humble  dwelling  the  comfort  and 
the  home-look  which  it  formerly  wore. 

One  day  the  captaia  of  a  ship  at  the  custom- 


house quay  came  into  the  Long-room,  as  it  was 
called,  where  William  was  writing.  The  captain 
was  transacting  some  business  concerning  his  ship 
and  while  thus  engaged,  the  clurk  he  was  speak- 
ing to  asked  Clayton  by  name  for  a  paper  that 
was  required. 

"Clayton!"  repeated  the  captain.  "It  is  a 
long  time  since  I  heard  that  name,  though  I  know 
and  like  it  well.  I  hope  you  won't  think  it 
curiosity,  if  I  ask  your  father's  name  ?" 

"  It  is  Philip  Clayton,"  replied  the  youth. 

"  It  must  be  the  same — and  you  are  William  1" 
exclaimed  the  sailor,  grasping  his  hand.  "  Tell 
me  only  that  all  are  well." 

A  shade  came  over  William's  face. 

"  My  father  is  not  in  good  health,  and  my 
brother  is  ill,"  he  answered,  sadly. 

The  joyful  look  of  the  sailor  was  dimmed  also. 

"You  will  take  me  to  see  them,"  he  said 
"I  have  often  longed  for  an  opportunity;  and 
hoped  if  ever  this  hour  arrived,  I  should  find  no 
sorrow  with  those  I  have  always  remembered  as 
being  so  happy." 

In  half  an  hour  William's  duties  were  over, 
and  they  left  the  custom-house  together.  Young 
Clayton  did  not  ask  his  companion's  name,  nor 
did  the  sailor  tell  it ;  though  before  their  walk 
was  ended,  his  anxiety  to  know  all  about  his  old 
friends  had  gleaned  almost  their  entire  history 
from  William's  ingenuousness.  Yet,  though  some- 
what prepared,  it  was  a  shock  when  Mr.  Clayton 
stood  before  him,  weak  and  tremulous,  stricken 
with  age  before  his  time  ;  and  he  saw  Harry,  the 
once  merry  and  light-hearted,  lying  powerless 
and  moveless  on  a  couch,  with  the  light  of  youth 
fading  from  his  eye,  and  its  spirit  dying  out  of 
his  bosom. 

"  An  old  friend  ?"  repeated  Clayton  inquiringly 
as  he  gazed  intently  on  the  face  of  his  visitor. 

"  Yes ;  an  obliged  and  deeply  indebted  one, 
and  a  grateful  one  too,  l\Ir.  Clayton,"  replied  the 
sailor.  "  Have  you  quite  forgotten  Frank  Allen, 
who  owes  everything  to  your  kindness  ?" 

"  A  feeling  came  over  me  at  the  first  that  it 
could  be  no  other,"  said  Clayton,  giving  him  a  cor- 
dial welcome,  which  was  warmly  echoed  round. 

An  hour  swept  away  all  the  clouds  which  ap- 
peared to  hang  over  Frank's  conduct  to  his  old 
friends  ;  for  he  had  often  written,  but  receiving 
no  answer,  had  fiincied  that  Clayton  never  wished 
to  hear  from  him  ;  and  when,  years  after,  he  re- 
turned to  the  village,  he  learned  that  they  had 
left  it  and  could  gain  no  further  tidings.  His 
own  fortunes  had  been  prosperous  during  the  fif- 
teen years  which  had  elapsed  since  Philip  Clayton 
acted  so  kind  a  part  to  him — for  talent  and  dili- 
gence had  won  him  the  favor  of  all  he  served  and 


10 


THE   DEAD   WEIGHT. 


sailed  with ;  and  so  he  had  risen  until,  two  years 
before,  he  obtained  the  command  of  a  ship. 

"  And  now  I  will  not  call  it  chance  that  brought 
me  to  this  port."  he  s^aid  ;  "it  was  some  higher 
influence  guided  me  here,  and  told  me  at  once 
■when  I  heard  tlie  name  to-day  that  one  of  my  old 
friends  was  near  me — though  it  certainly  was 
not  William  that  1  thought  of  seeing." 

"Ah,  you  would  think  of  me,"  observed  Harry, 
•with  a  mournful  smile,  "But  my  father  and 
mother  have  but  one  son  to  work  for  them." 

"  No,  Harry,"  replied  Allen,  crossing  over  to 
the  friend  of  his  boyhood  and  taking  his  hand  ; 
"  they  shall  have  two  sons  to  work  for  them  ;  and 
in  good  time  I  trust  (hat  you  may  join  us  as  the 
third.  But  all  I  have  I  owe  to  your  father's  ge- 
nerosity— he  acted  towards  me  as  a  father ;  and 
deeply  grieved  shall  1  be  if  he  will  not  allow  me 
to  be  as  a  son  to  him.  Surely,  surely,  Mr.  Clay- 
ton," he  continued  earnestly,  "  you  will  not  re- 
fuse to  the  boy  whom  you  protected — whom 
your  bounty  placed  in  the  way  of  winning  far 
more  than  a  competency — you  will  not  refuse  to 
him  the  power  of  proving  his  gratitude  for  all 
that  you  have  done  for  him  !  To  be  a  son  to  you 
and  Mrs.  jClayton,  and  a  brother  to  your  children 
— this  is  all  I  wish,  and  it  would  indeed  be  to  me 
a  happiness." 

It  was  the  truest  gratitude  that  prompted  the 
desire,  and  bade  him  exert  all  his  eloquence  to 
win,  as  he  did  at  length,  the  privilege  of  devot- 
ing himself  as  a  son  to  the  protector  of  his  boy- 
hood. For  Henry  especially,  his  heart  was 
grieved  ;  to  see  him,  young  and  gifted,  wearing 
away  the  spring-time  of  his  life  in  suffering  and 
sorrow,  pained  him  deeply ;  and  he  earnestly 
sought  other  and  better  advice  upon  his  case  than 
the  Claytons' means  had  enabled  them  to  com- 
mand. At  length  a  hope  was  given  that  a  partial 
recovery  at  least  might  be  attained. 

With  this  hope,  and  the  blessings  of  his  early 


friends,  Frank  Allen,  at  the  end  of  some  weeks, 
went  on  his  voyage,  happy  in  the  consciousness 
that  he  left  lighter  hearts  than  he  had  found. 
And  when,  months  after,  he  returned,  there  were 
brigiit  smiles  to  greet  him  back,  and  something 
of  the  old  light  beginning  to  beam  in  Harry's 
eye,  for  the  dreary  period  of  hopelessness  was 
past,  and  he  had  the  prospect  that  in  another 
year  he  might  once  more  tread  the  green  turf, 
and  look  upon  the  sparkling  streams;  and,  above 
all,  essay  again  to  support  himself,  at  least,  in- 
stead of  remaining  in  the  helpless  and  child-like 
dependence  which  had  so  weighed  upon  his  spirit  _ 

The  prospect  was  not  deceptive,  and  before 
Frank  left  them  next,  its  promise  was  in  part 
fulfilled,  and  young  Clayton  was  able  to  move 
about,  with  assistance. 

"  Philip,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton  to  her  husband,  as 
they  watched  from  the  window  Harry  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  the  friend  to  whose  aid  his  recovery 
was  so  greatly  owing,  since  it  had  involved  ex- 
penses which  they  themselves  could  not  have  met. 
"  Philip,  your  two  hundred  and  fifty  were  put  out 
to  far  better  interest  than  all  the  other  monej-  we 
ever  saved ;  the  rest  is  gone,  but  this  remains  to 
bless  us.  Little  thought  I  when  I  so  opposed  you, 
how  rich  a  return  your  generosity  would  receive  !" 

"  Nor  I  either,"  answered  Clayton;  "I  never 
thought  of  nor  sought  return.  But  it  has  come  to 
cheer  us  in  the  hour  it  was  most  needed  ;  and 
now,  as  I  look  on  those  two,  how  it  brings  back 
that  last  evening  when  Allen  and  I  stood  watch- 
ing our  boys;  now,  as  then,  his  was  tiie  helper  of 
mine  ;  and  I  could  almost  think  the  very  smiles 
of  old,  with  all  boyhood's  cloudless  joy,  was  on 
their  faces." 

He  guessed  not  yet  the  cause  of  those  smiles, 
nor  that  Frank  had  just  told  Harry  how  his  own 
deep,  true  love  had  won  that  of  Violet,  and  that 
ere  long  he  hoped  to  claim  by  right  the  titles  of 
son  and  brother  in  the  family  of  his  adoption. 


THE    DEAD    WEIGHT. 


I  watch'd  a  liule  bird  one  day, 

In  a  new  plongliM  eartlily  soil, 
Seeking  liaril  in  the  npturnM  clay 
On  some  hapless  insect  or  worm  to  prey  ; 
And  she  labor'd  with  diligence  fast  away, 

Till  a  victim  rewarded  her  toil. 

The  bird  was  delicate,  small  and  weak, 

And  the  worm  could  not  drag  on  high. 
For,  though  firmly  gras|)'d  in  her  tiny  beak. 
She  wiBh'd  with  tho  burden  her  nest  to  seek. 


Though  her  wings  with  the  flatt'ring  I  thought  would 
break — 
Thus  loaded  she  could  not  fly. 

And  I  said,  "  Oh  !  man,  it  is  thus  with  thee. 

When  seeking  to  soar  above, 
If  thou  tliink'st  thou  canst  ever  uplifted  be 
With  thy  burden  of  sin  and  infirmity; 
But  loose  thy  grasp  ere  thou  tricst  to  flee. 

And  no  more  impair'd  thy  flight  shall  be. 


HANNAH    ADAMS. 


B  T      MRS, 


DOUBLEDAT, 


"  Notliini;  lovelier  can  be  fonnJ 
In  woman,  than  to  study  household  good, 
And  good  works  in  her  luisliand  to  promote." 

Tn  an  age  in  which  tlie  "  rigltts  of  woman"  have 
been  insisted  upon  more  earnestly,  discussed 
more  loudly,  and  pressed  more  fervently  than  at 
any  former  period,  this  delineation  of  the  homely 
and  humble  duties  of  the  sex  may  be  justly  sup- 
posed to  be  received  with  little  favor. 

The  ladies  who  contend  for  the  pulpit  and  the 
platform  in  their  native  land,  and  who  cross  the 
Atlantic  to  urge  before  an  assembled  world  their 
right  to  mingle  in  the  stormy  debate,  and  to 
make  the  spacious  hall  reecho  with  their  shrill 
yeas  and  nays,  cannot  be  thought  to  have  much 
more  reverence  for  the  great  epic  poet  than  they 
have  already  expressed  for  the  apostle  to  the 
Gentiles  ;  and  if  the  one  was  misled  by  his  "Jew- 
ish prejudices,"  the  other  may  well  be  imagined 
to  have  been  fettered  by  the  contracted  spirit  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  While  we  select  the 
above  for  our  motto,  we  must  ourselves  confess 
that  we  not  altogether  either  admire  or  approve 
of  the  character  of  the  first  mother,  as  drawn  by 
the  immortal  poet.  And  we  will  dare  to  avow, 
that  in  our  minds  there  has  ever  been  a  lurking 
suspicion,  that  a  very  consciousness  of  the  strong 
dissimilarity  between  her  own  character  and  that 
of  Milton's  heroine  must  have  been  present  to  the 
mind  of  Hannah  More,  even  while  writing  her 
beautiful  eulogy  upon  it;  not  that  we  would  ac- 
cuse Miss  More  of  insincerity,  but  because  we 
know  it  to  be  one  of  the  traits  of  human  nature  to 
be  unwilling  to  be  thought  to  be  blind  to  a  kind 
of  excellence  which  we  may  yet  be  very  conscious 
of  not  professing. 

And  Hannah  More — the  single  lady,  naturally 
firm,  energetic  and  independent,  caressed  Viy  bish- 
ops, lords,  and  statesmen,  might  find  it  easy  to 
commend  and  to  recommend  the  quiet  submission, 
the  humble  deference,  the  lowly  obedience  of  the 
wife 

Hut  after  having  said  thus  much,  we  will  say 
that  we  do  most  sincerely  subscribe  to  the  truth  of 
this  doctrine  taught  by  our  poet.  It  is  woman's 
highest  praise, 


"  To  study  household  good, 
And  good  works  in  her  husband  to  promote." 

And  we  would  reiterate  the  often  repeated  as- 
sertion— home  is  the  sphere  of  woman — the  do- 
mestic circle  the  place  where  her  influence  is  most 
naturally,  most  properly,  and  most  efficiently  ex- 
erted. Nor  do  we  view  the  region  as  too  con- 
tracted to  forbid  either  the  expansion  or  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  highest  powers  of  mind  or  of  heart 
with  which  she  may  have  been  endowed.  The 
influence  of  woman  is  silent  and  quiet,  vet  per- 
vading and  affecting  every  interest  of  society.  It 
is  like  the  dews  of  night,  unseen,  but  not  un  felt — 
either  pure  and  healthful,  reviving,  refreshing  and 
invigorating  all  nature,  or  a  noxious  miasma  dif- 
fusing around  contagion  and  death. 

The  mother  moulds  the  character  of  the  future 
divine,  legislator,  or  statesman.  1  he  wife  inspires, 
encourages,  and  supports  her  husband  ;  and  the 
sister,  the  refined,  intelligent,  virtuous  sister,  is  the 
best  safeguard  for  the  purity  and  the  happiness  of 
the  brother,  and  tlie  friend.  Let  woman  look  at 
the  mighty  power  intrusted  to  her  ;  the  power  of 
moving  all  the  secret  springs  of  human  action  ;  of 
moulding  all  the  elements  of  society  ;  let  her  rea- 
lize her  respon-ibilities,  and  feel  all  the  weight  of 
the  obligations  already  resting  upon  her,  and  she 
will  not  ask  a  wider  field,  she  will  not  seek  a 
more  commanding  station. 

The  influence  of  the  mother  is  a  more  common 
theme,  but  it  is  not  probably  greater  than  that  of 
the  wife.  It  is  difterent,  it  is  more  direct  and  ap- 
parent ;  it  has  more  the  aspect  of  authority  ;  it  is 
often  avowed  and  acknowledged,  yet  it  is  not,  as 
we  think,  so  subtle,  so  all  pervading.  Shrouded 
by  the  privacy  of  domestic  life,  the  influence  of 
woman  upon  public  aff^urs  can  seldom  be  directly 
traced  ;  yet  while  our  national  history  bears  upon 
its  pages  the  name  of  him  who  sold,  betrayed, 
and  well  nigh  ruined  his  country,  those  more  con- 
versant with  the  annals  of  the  day  will  remember 
that  he  was  probably  impelled  to  these  deeds  of  in- 
famy and  ruin,  by  a  wish  the  more  readily  to 
meet  the  demands  which  the  pride,  folly  and  ex- 
travagance of  his  wife  made  upon  his  purse. 

In  what  a  bright  contrast  to  this  modern  Tar- 


12 


HANNAH   ADAMS. 


peia,  stands  the  venerable  matron  whose  letters 
have  been  laid  before  the  world.  We  rejoice  in 
the  publication  of  these  letters.  We  feel  that  the 
family  have  thus  added  to  the  many  obligations 
of  respect  and  gratitude  already  imposed  upon 
their  country.  They  give  us  the  portrait  of  an 
American  matron,  during  the  most  interesting 
period  of  our  national  existence ;  and  present  a 
picture  well  worthy  of  being  copied  by  the  coun- 
trywomen of  Mrs.  Adams  in  the  present  day. 
We  consider  the  work  the  more  valuable,  that  the 
character  there  developed,  although  superior,  is 
not  uncommon.  All  the  excellences  of  Mrs. 
Adams  are  attainable,  and  that  too,  by  women 
in  the  ordinary  ranks  of  life.  The  times  in  which 
she  lived  were  such  as  tried  tiie  soul ;  but  the 
sphere  in  which  she  moved  during  most  of  her  life, 
was  that  in  which  the  ordinary  duties  of  women 
are  to  be  found.     She  made  it  her  great  business 

"To  study  household  good, 
^ndgoed  works  in  Iter  hushand  to  promote.^' 

"The  heart  of  the  husband  did  safely  tru^t  in 
her,  so  tiiat  he  had  no  fear  of  spoil ;"  and  by  her 
prudent  and  judicious  management  of  their  fami- 
ly, she  left  him  at  liberty  to  devote  himself  to  the 
service  of  his  country.  While  the  wife  evidently 
felt  the  absence  of  the  husband  and  companion, 
yet  she  cheerfully  submitted  to  all  the  cares  and 
trials  consequent  upon  their  separation.  She  ne- 
ver yielded  to  murmuring,  fretfulness,  or  discon- 
tent. She  found  her  happiness  in  the  performance 
of  her  duty ;  and  although  living  in  a  period  of 
great  apprehension  and  alarm,  and  knowing  tliat 
all  the  interests  dear  to  her  were  at  stake,  she  yet 
indulged  in  no  feminine  weakness,  no  gloomy 
forebodings,  no  dark  anticipations.  She  main- 
tained a  spirit  of  cheerfulness,  hope,  and  confi- 
dence, admirably  calculated  to  sustain  both  her- 
self and  her  husband  during  the  trying  scenes 
through  which  they  were  called  to  pass. 

These  letters  are  the  more  interesting  from 
commencing  at  an  early  age,  and  thus  enabling 
us  to  mark  the  early  development,  the  maturing 
and  the  ripening  of  the  character.  From  the  gay 
girl,  who,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  youtliful  spirits, 
delighted  to  tease,  while  she  yet  sympathised 
with  her  sedate,  and,  as  we  fancy,  somewhat  stern 
lover,  to  the  young  wife  and  mother,  thinking  an 
absence  of  a  few  days  too  long ;  then  the  matron 
of  middle  life,  yielding  her  husband  at  the  call  of 
her  country,  sustaining  all  the  multiplied  cares 
which  thus  devolved  upon  her,  and  diligently  pro- 
moting all  the  interests  of  her  family  during  his 
absence;  then  the  wife  of  the  American  represen- 
tative, standing  in  the  presence  of  royalty, 
neither  dismayed  by  the  power,  nor  dazzled  by 
the  pomp  which  surrounded  her;  her  returning 


to  her  native  land,  and  taking  the  highest  station 
in  it,  gracefully  dispensing  the  hospitalities  re- 
quired from  her  station,  yet  not  forgetting  the 
domestic  habits  of  her  early  life;  again  quietly 
returning  to  private  life,  and  cheerfully  resuming 
her  early  habits  and  employments,  with  her 
skimming-dish  in  her  hand,  visiting  the  dairy  at 
five  in  the  morning.  We  delighted  to  follow  her 
through  all  the  changes  of  her  eventful  life.  We 
love  to  contemplate  her  as  a  woman,  fulfilling  all 
the  duties  other  sex,  and  more,  we  wish  to  con- 
sider her  as  a  fair  representative  of  the  women  of 
her  country.  We  love  to  think  of  her  as  an 
American  woman  ;  as  one  of  the  many  who  con- 
tributed largely  to  tlie  prosperity  of  their  country, 
not  by  haranguing  her  senate,  or  leading  her  ar- 
mies ;  but  by  the  quiet,  unostentatious  perform- 
ance of  the  humble  and  laborious  duties  which 
devolved  upon  them,  during  the  absence  of  their 
husbands  from  their  lonely  and  often  scattered 
homes. 

We  would  hold  the  domestic  character  of  Mrs . 
Adams  before  the  countrywomen  of  the  present 
day,  and  would  be  allowed  to  ask  those  who  are 
now  preparing  to  enter  upon  the  busy  scenes  of 
life,  if  they  are  cultivating  the  tastes,  the  habits, 
the  principles  which  will  make  them  thus  useful, 
thus  honored.  The  station  in  which  Mrs.  Adams 
was  placed,  made  her  virtues  the  more  conspi- 
cuous ;  but  it  did  not  endow  her  with  them. 
They  were  the  product  of  a  secluded,  domestic, 
religious  education — an  education  which  regulated 
the  temper,  cultivated  the  affections,  and  dis- 
ciplined the  mind. 

She  enjoyed  no  uncommon  advantages.  She 
was  not  able  even  to  avail  herself  of  those  pre- 
sented by  the  fashionable  (we  wonder  if  there 
were  such  a  word  in  the  vocabulary  of  our  pil- 
grim ancestors  ?)  schools  of  the  day.  Her  edu- 
cation was  wholly  domestic.  To  a  mind  consti- 
tuted like  hers,  this  could  be  no  disadvantage — 
she  had  too  much  natural  activity  to  sutler  her 
mental  powers  to  stagnate;  and  she  learned  to 
study,  not  from  a  spirit  of  vanity  or  emulation, 
but  from  a  love  of  knowledge,  and  a  desire  to  in- 
form herself  Reading  probably  became  the 
amusement  of  her  leisure  hours:  and  this  habit, 
early  formed,  continued  through  life.  Her  letter.t 
certainly  show  tliat  she  had  a  thorough  acquaint- 
ance with  the  English  poet?,  and  with  many  of 
the  best  English  writers — a  knowledge  more 
common  formerly  than  now,  when  women  de- 
pended more  upon  their  private  application  to 
study,  and  a  judicious  course  of  reading,  as  to 
the  means  of  education,  than  upon  the  modern 
aids,  which  are  so  abundantly  supplied.  The 
New  England  habits  of  domestic  industry;  tha 


HANNAH  ADAMS. 


13 


lengthened  evening  devoted  to  reading;  the  cheer- 
ful fireside,  and  even  the  old-fashioned  accessory 
of  the  ever-pvesent  knitting  work,  were  all  ad- 
mirably calculated  to  form  women  of  reflecting 
minds,  industrious  habits,  and  religious  principle  \ 
and  the  work  of  education,  the  education  of  the 
whole  woman,  the  fitting  her  to  sustain  all  the 
responsibilities,  and  to  discharge  all  the  duties  of 
wife  and  mother,  daughter  and  sister,  was  com- 
menced, and  at  an  early  period  daily  and  imper- 
ceptibly continued  and  carried  on,  even  while  the 
subject  was  never  discussed,  the  word  not  used, 
and  perhaps  while  the  parents  were  regretting 
their  inability  to  bestow  it.     Many  families  being 
well  brought  up,  who  were  yet  never  supposed  to 
have  been  educated,  parents  not  realizing  that  to 
bring  up  a  child  in  the  way  he  should  go,  to  fit  it 
to  discharge  well  the  duties  of  this  life,  and  more, 
so  to  inculcate  the  great  principles  of  truth  as  to 
lead  to  tlie  establishment  of  a  well   grounded 
hope  fur  the  life  to  come,  was  the  best  education 
which  could  be  given.     We  think  it  no  small  evil 
attendant  upon  the  modern  system  of  female  edu- 
cation, so  generally  pursued  in  our  country,  that 
the  constant  excitement  of  a  public  school  unfits 
a  young  lady  to  return  to  the  quiet,  sober  duties 
of  domestic  life,  or  to  enjoy  the  seclusion  of  the 
family  circle.     A  young  lady,  after  having  passed 
through  the  course  of  one  of  our  modern  estab- 
lishments for  femalo  education,  either  leaves  it,  if 
she  be  a  girl  of  active,  inquisitive,  and  aspiring 
mind,  with  her  constitution  enfeebled,  and  her 
nervous  system  shattered,  from  too  great  mental 
stimulus  ;  or  after   having  passed  through   the 
round  of  modern  accomplishments,  she  considers 
her   education  completed  when   the   last   term 
closes,   and   throws   aside   her   books,    and    her 
studies,  as  she  does  the  restraints  of  the  school 
room  and  governess ;  while  she  who,  with  fewer 
means  of  instruction  at  command,  fewer  of  the 
appliances  of  education,  as  Miss  More  calls  them, 
if  the  desire  for  knowledge  be  awakened,  and  the 
pleasure  to  be  derived  from  the  exercise  of  the 
mental  powers  once  enjoyed,  becomes  in  a  great 
measure  self-taught,  will  make  self-improvement 
the  business  of  her  life. 

Her  progress  may  be  comparatively  slow,  but 
it  will  be  sure.  She  will  not  be  a  prodigy  at 
sixteen,  but  she  will  be  a  judicious,  well-informed 
woman  at  thirty-five.  It  was  this  domestic  edu- 
cation, this  self-culture,  this  thorough  <liscipline 
of  the  whole  character,  which  fitted  Mrs.  Adams 
to  discharge  the  various  duties  which  at  the  dif- 
ferent periods  of  her  life  devolved  upon  her,  with 


so  much  honor  to  herself,  and  with  so  much  bene- 
fit to  her  family     In  all  the  relations  of  life  she 
appears  in  a  light  which  commands  our  respect 
and  admiration.     As  a  wife,  while  all  the  letters 
to  her  husband  are  marked  by  the  independent 
thought,  and  good  sense,  which  distinguished  her, 
they  yet  breathe  a  delightful  spirit  of  conjugal 
deference  and  respect,  not  always  manifested  by 
women  of  superior  minds   towards  those  whom 
they  may  yet  have  promised  to  "  honor  and  obey.'' 
Mrs.  Adams  certainly  obeyed  the  apostolic  pre- 
cept, and  reverenced  her  husband;  and  happy 
the  wife  where  the  character  of  the  husband  ren- 
ders a  cheerful  obedience  so  easy.     Her  letters 
to  her  sons  are  always  admirable,  and  show  how 
anxiously  she  desired,  and  how  unwearying  and 
self-denying  were  her  endeavors,  to  promote  their 
best  interests.     We  find  her  watching  over  her 
aged  parents  with  tender  afiection  ;  kindly  com- 
municative to  her  sisters,  amusing  and  instructing 
her  nieces,  and  pr'jdently  advising  after  she  had 
ceased  to  direct  her  daughter,  and  delighting  her 
last  days  with  her  grandson. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Adams,  dated  February  8tb, 
1797,  upon  his  election  to  the  Presidential  chair, 
we  consider  as  a  most  admirable  production.  It 
breathes  a  spirit  worthy  of  a  daughter  of  the  Pu- 
ritans— a  spirit  which  we  could  wish  had  more 
entirely  animated  every  epistle  which  she  wrote. 
While  we  regret  to  feel  obliged  to  say,  that  these 
letters  contain  some  expressions  which  we  con- 
sider as  objectionable — some  sentiments  which 
we  cannot  approve — yet  we  would  desire  to  be 
allowed  to  recommend  both  the  letters  and  the 
character  of  the  venerable  authoress  to  the  con- 
sideration of  her  fair  countiywomen. 

They  may  there  learn  what  qualities  are  most 
necessary  to  render  the  women  of  our  o\\  n  land 
useful,  liappy,  and  respected. 

In  conclusion,  let  us  pay,  that  while  there  is 
attached  to  the  name  of  Mrs.  Adams  the  high 
honor  of  being  the  wife  of  one  President,  and  the 
mother  of  another,  we  trust  that  her  name  is  des- 
tined to  descend  to  future  ages,  with  yot  brighter 
radiance,  as  the  mother  of  one  of  the  earliest 
American  philanthropists,  who  liad  caused  his 
indignant  voice  to  be  heard  in  the  hall  of  Con 
gress,  and  of  one  who  stood,  in  his  old  age,*  be- 
fore the  judicial  tribunal  of  his  country,  there  to 
plead  the  cause  of  injured  and  outraged  human- 
itv,  for  those  who  had  nothing  to  commend  them 
but  their  woes  and  their  wrongs — and  the  woes 
and  wrongs  of  their  bleeding  and  oppressed  race. 

*  Aftar  baring  tilled  the  highest  oflice  in  his  land. 


THE    CIT 


BY    METTA    VICTORIA    FULLER. 


A  shepherd  sang  on  the  mountain-top,  as  he  sat 
by  a  cool  spring  and  guarded  his  flock.     Tall  ce-  , 
dars  waved  above  him,  and  vines  festooned  the 
trees.     Annin  was  the  name  of  this  shepherd;  j 
and  he  was  fair  and  noble  of  form.     Wild  daring  I 
sparkled  in  liis  proud  eye,  and  sometimes  wreathed 
his  lip  as  roses  wreath  a  bower;  his  motions  were 
full  of  grace,  and   his  dark  curls  floated  on  the 
breeze.     His  forehead  was  like  that  of  a  young 
prince — lofty,  with   somewhat   of    hauglitiness; 
and  there  was  a  regal  grace  in  his  expression 
that  was  beautiful. 

Annin  lovedatlear  young  shepherdess  with  all 
that  was  left  of  his  passionate  heart  after  what 
he  had  given  to  ambition  For  in  t!ie  wilds  of 
the  hills,  beneath  the  eternal  stars,  hopes  that 
surely  seemed  a  mockery,  they  were  so  bright, 
thrilled  his  puUes  to  fire,  and  haunted  his 
sleep  with  visions  of  enduring  fame.  Brooding 
over  this  ambition,  and  mingling  it  with  charms 
of  his  Edre,  Annin  lost  himself  in  reverie,  and 
when  he  started  to  his  feet  at  last,  the  sun  had 
nearly  set,  and  his  flock  were  lost  from  sight. 
'  Bounding  over  the  hills,  he  struck  into  a  craggy 
defile,  and  far  below  him,  leaping  and  scrambling 
from  rock  to  jagged  rock,  he  beheld  the  sheep  of 
his  master.  The  wa^'  looked  fearful — looked  im- 
passible— yet  nothing  could  daunt  the  bravery  of 
the  young  sheplierd.  Apparently  a  dark  ravine, 
filled  perhaps  by  a  hidden  river,  lay  before  him. 
Down,  after  the  flying  flock,  he  sprang;  rugged 
rocks  were  clambered  over,  chasms  leaped,  preci- 
pices slid;  down,  down,  down  the  dangerous  way 
he  bounded  like  a  torrent! 

The  air  giev/  dim,  he  had  descended  so  far. 
Looking  up,  he  could  see  the  red  glow  of  sunset 
upon  the  overhanging  trees.  Down  a  few  more 
leaps,  and  he  stood  on  a  broad  plain,  walled  in 
on  every  side  by  pathless  rocks  and  hills.  A 
stream  flowed  tlirough  the  centre  with  undulating 
curves,  and  the  ground  was  level  and  fair.  This 
was  all  he  could  see  in  the  faint  light  falling 
from  the  sky  far  overhead;  it  was  too  dark  to 
give  a  hope  of  his  reaching  the  hill-top  that 
night,  and  it  was  doubtfid  if  he  ever  could  scale 
those  awfal  cliffs ; — hunger  might  waste  him, 


lions  might  devour  him  !  And  was  tliis  the  end 
of  his  ambition?— to  perish  in  this  fearful  soli- 
tude ?  He  flung  himself  with  a  despairing  heart 
by  the  riverside;  where,  overcome  with  weari- 
ness, he  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  of  Edre. 

The  bright  sun  of  morning  dimly  illuminated 
the  lonely  valley,  and  awoke  the  young  shepherd 
from  his  long  sleep.  The  beams  that  fell  on  his 
face  fell  aho  on  the  clear  river  flowing  by  him. 
A  gleam — a  sparkle — a  gleam  !  Why  did  Annis 
start  and  quiver?  Why  did  his  eye  fla^^h  with 
that  strange  delight?  His  hand  is  buried  in  the 
clear  stream,  and  withdrawn — behold  !  it  is  full 
of  precious  jewels — jewels  flashing  ant!  quivering 
in  his  clasp,  mixed  with  golden  sand. 

tHe  started  to  his  feet  and  sent  up  from  his 
beautiful  lips  a  shout  of  joy,  and  wonder,  and  tri- 
umph. With  excited  steps  he  paced  to  and  fro 
the  soft  green  bank  of  the  river'.  Pale  flowers 
drooped  upon  its  brim,  and  pale  fishes  swam  in 
its  glittering  waves.  He  pressed  his  flushed 
forehead  with  his  hands,  and  tried  to  still  the 
loud  beating  of  his  bosom,  as  thought  after 
thought  of  wealth,  and  power,  and  grandeur, 
rushed  over  him. 

Tiie  flock  he  came  to  serve  grazed  quietly  a 
little  distance  away  ;  they  were  nothing  now  to 
him.  Witli  lumps  of  shining  gold  and  splendid 
stones  he  filled  his  liumble  garments,  and  slowly, 
retarded  by  their  weight,  he  retraced  his  danger- 
ous pathway. 

No  ravenous  hearts  were  in  the  dim  valley  of 
magnificence;  but  while  the  shepherd  had  slept, 
the  glittering  eyes  of  the  serpent  had  guarded 
him ;  and  when  he  awoke,  they  had  watched  him 
with  their  intense  and  terrible  smile  of  exulta- 
tion 

In  safety  Annis  stood  again  upon  tlie  mountain- 
top.  A  darker  fire  was  in  his  eye,  a  richer  flush 
upon  his  lip,  a  more  imperial  pride  upon  his 
brow.  He  looked  tlie  personification  of  inspired 
ambition.  Like  his  might  have  been  the  form 
of  Lucifer,  before  he  was  cast  from  heaven. 
Again  the  shout  burst  from  his  eager  heart,  ring- 
ing like  wild  music  over  the  luxuriant  hills, — 
"  Ho  !  a  God  and  a  King  1    Ho  1  a  God  and  a 


THE   CITY    OF   NIGHT, 


15 


King !"     And  the  tall  mountains  took  up  the  echo 
and  repeated,  "  Ho  !  a  God  and  a  King." 

Not  long  after  this,  a  band  of  men  were  led  by 
the  sliepherd  into  his  secret  kingdom,  and  this 
band  were  sworn  to  be  faithful  to  the  young 
aspirant.  He  hud  them  in  his  power,  for  lie 
alone  could  lead  them  through  tlie  mountain  pass  ; 
and  when  once  n  the  hidden  vale,  he  might  have 
left  them  to  perish  for  want  of  food,  if  they  had 
dared  to  rebel  against  his  authority. 

Strange  rumors  flew  over  the  surrounding  na- 
tions of  a  beautiful  God  who  had  come  down 
from  heaven  into  a  valley  amid  tiie  mountains, 
and  that  he  had  filled  it  with  riches  and  splendor ; 
and  that  whoever  worshipped  and  obeyed  him 
were  made  wealthier  and  grsmder  than  King 
Solomon.  Soon  the  retinue  of  tlie  self-constituted 
God  and  King  swelled  to  ten  thousand,  and  his 
new  country  was  filled  with  people. 

Suddenly,  as  the  moon  rises  in  the  midnight 
sky,  a  magnificent  city  arose  in  the  centre  of  the 
valley.  And  because  the  sun  never  shone  fully 
upon  it,  for  the  air  was  dim  forever  there,  it  was 
called  the  City  of  Night.  Marble,  and  granite, 
and  emerald,  was  hewn  from  the  mountain  cav- 
erns— silver,  and  gold,  and  precious  stones,  gath- 
ered from  the  river-bed.  Temples,  and  towers, 
and  palaces,  reared  their  gorgeous  forms,  glitter- 
ing in  the  twilight  atmosphere.  Indescribable 
splendor  filled  the  vale.  Many  thousands  from 
other  lands  came  to  the  mountain-top  to  behold 
the  magnificent  pinnacle  of  the  chief  temple 
dedicated  to  the  King,  rising  like  a  fountain  of 
gems  even  above  the  hills  themselves,  yet  up- 
approachable  to  all  but  the  inhabitants  dwelling 
below.  With  its  beautiful  turret,  sparkling  and 
beaming  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  whose  glory  it 
seemed  to  mock,  this  temple  rose  up  to  tell  to 
other  nations  the  splendor  of  this  wonderful  peo- 
ple, whose  God  lived  and  dwelt  with  them,  and 
brought  riches  from  the  skies  to  reward  his  wor- 
shippers for  their  faith  and  devotion. 

Truly  this  City  of  Night  was  like  a  dream  in 
its  gorgeousness.  Iluntlreds  of  thousands  of 
lamps  burnt  every  night  within  its  walls,  for  with 
its  inhabitants  night  was  turned  into  day,  and  tlie 
dav  into  hours  of  repose.  Arches  of  pure  em- 
erald spanned  the  marble  paved  streets;  fo\m- 
tains  of  unique  shape  sent  rainbow  sprays  to  glit- 
ter in  the  rich  lamp  light.  Hundreds  of  beautiful 
little  temjdes  richly  decorated  stood  here  and 
there;  and  upon  the  silver  shrines  within,  pale 
blossoms  and  clusters  of  food  were  offered  by  fair 
devotees  to  Annin.  Entranci  g  mu>ic  floated 
upon  the  air,  and  voluptuously  beautiful  young 
creatures  wreathed  their  shining  arms  in  dances 
of  enchanting  grace,  circling,  and   singing,  and 


gliding  through  the  illuminated  streets,  their 
white  feet  glancing  over  the  smooth  pavements, 
and  their  fa.r  limbs  waving  and  undulating  to 
the  sound  of  the  ravishing  melody.  The  fairest 
of  earth  were  these  young  daughters  of  the  niys- 
tic  city.  Tiie  courts,  the  palaces,  the  streets,  the 
temples,  were  radiant  with  their  lovely  forms. 
Bright  eyes  flashed  everywhere,  and  soft  cheeks 
burned,  and  sweet  lips  smiled,  and  loose  hair 
floated.  The  garments  of  these  young  maidens 
were  embroidered  witli  gems;  their  delicate 
ankles  and  round  arms  were  circled  with  shining 
gems;  their  long  tresses  glittered  with  costly  or- 
naments. Flashing  girdles  bound  their  silken 
robes. 

Wo !  to  the  young  shepherdess  on  the  hills 
round  about  if  the  eye  of  a  son  of  the  valley 
rested  upon  her  beauty.  Wo  to  her  then,  if  she 
loved  her  parents  and  her  home,  for  from  that 
time  the  city  of  glory  was  her  abidnig-place,  and 
her  will  was  the  will  of  the  king.  Yet  many 
were  intoxicated  with  the  splendor  of  their  fate, 
and  loved  the  proud  and  fascinating  young  An- 
nin. Wo  to  the  vineyards  and  the  flocks  upon 
the  mountains,  for  the  children  of  the  valley 
ravished  them,  till  the  jeweled  goblets  of  the 
palaces  overflowed  with  wine,  and  the  golden 
dishes  with  dainty  meats. 

Edre,  the  first  love  of  the  ruler,  was  queen 
over  all  the  beautiful  maidens  of  her  people. 
She  walked  in  purple  apparel,  and  a  circlet  burn- 
ing with  rare  diamonds  bound  her  fair  brows. 
Edre  was  fit  to  be  a  queen.  A  simple  nobleness 
graced  every  movement,  and  a  caltn  majesty  sat 
on  her  graceful  form.  She  had  large,  slow  moving 
eyes,  passionless,  and  deep,  and  pure,  like  an  an- 
gel's eyes.  She  would  have  seemed  angelic  more 
than  woraanlj',  had  it  not  been  for  the  sweet 
witchery  that  played  round  her  mouth. 

It  was  not  strange  that  the  passionate  and 
gifted  shepherd  should  have  loved  just  such  a 
maiden  before  his  ambition  had  been  polluted  by 
prosperity.  All  his  poetic  drean  s  seemed  em- 
bodied in  the  purity  of  her  calm  radiance,  and 
the  power  of  his  ardent  nature  never  reached  to 
the  bottom  of  the  deep  fountains  of  her  almost 
sinless  soul. 

The  more  that  luxury  and  revelry  abounded 
in  the  valley,  the  more  did  the  fair  queen  seem 
to  grow  in  majesty  and  beauty.  A  melancholy 
lustre  shone  through  her  loveliness  like  the  efful- 
gence of  a  star.  She  drank  no  wine  at  the  ban- 
quet, and  looked  not  upon  the  bewildering  dances, 
nor  offered  incense  upon  the  shrine  of  tlieir  God, 
even  though  she  were  his  bride.  The  love  that 
was  once  only  hers  was  divided  amid  a  thousand 
unholy  women,  and  she  withdrew  her  affections, 


16 


THE  CITY   OF  KIGHT. 


and  buried  them  in  the  depths  of  her  spotless 
bosom.  Her  calm  eyes  read  daily  the  writing 
of  vice  and  voluptuousness  over  the  forehead 
once  glowing  with  the  inspiration  of  genius,  and 
the  winning  sweetness  of  her  lips  at  times  quiv- 
ered with  sudden  change  to  sorrow. 

Vice  w^rapped  like  a  mantle  the  inhabitants  of 
the  valley.  No  where  upon  the  earth  since  the 
desolation  of  Sodom  and  Gommorah  had  there 
been  such  evil  workings  as  filled  the  City  of 
Night,  so  much  the  more  as  it  was  splendid  was 
it  wicked;  luxury,  clothed  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
took  the  black  form  of  sin  to  its  bosom,  and  all 
deceitful  cunnings  and  fearful  devices  of  evil  was 
their  offspring. 

Year  by  year  the  wickedness  increased — pol- 
lutions touched  beauty  with  decay,  and  filled 
the  streets  with  suffering  and  disease. 

Year  by  year  the  solemn  glory  of  the  Queen's 
presence  grew  more  radient : — she  shone  from 
out  that  war  of  evil  passions  like  a  beautiful  star 
through  a  storm.  She  faded  not,  nor  withered, 
nor  seemed  to  grow  old.  She  was  seldom  seen, 
but  she  was  the  marvel  and  the  adored  of  all. 
The  waves  of  sin  rolled  back  from  her  and 
harmed  her  not.  Lonely  in  her  magnificent  pal- 
ace she  passed  her  days. 

The  time  for  the  desolation  of  the  valley  of 
Annin  drew  nigh.  The  Tempter  had  nearly  fin- 
ished the  work  of  his  night  upon  the  children  of 
the  City  of  Night.  The  light  of  jewels  and  of 
wine-cups  had  been  steeped  in  the  fascinations 
of  his  power,  and  had  poisoned  the  hearts  that 
wore  and  the  lips  that  drank  them.  He  lay 
curled  in  a  cavern  of  the  mountains  awaiting  the 
perfection  of  his  triumph. 

There  was  a  night  of  festal  offering  in  the 
bright  city,  the  doors  of  the  Temple  were  thrown 
open,  and  the  one  who  had  took  upon  himself  the 
assumption  of  divinity  sat  in  regal  pomp  upon 
a  magnificent  throne,  sacred  to  him  as  his  sanc- 
tum sanctorum.  At  his  feet  lay  two  dogs  with 
serpent  heads,  the  bodies  of  solid  silver,  and  the 
lieads  of  rubies  set  in  gold,  M-ith  eyes  of  diamonds 
flashing  and  glowing.  Tiiese  dogs  guarded  the 
sacred  chair  upon  which  he  now  sat.  Before  the 
throne  an  immense  vessel  of  gold,  with  a  wreath 
of  amethysts  around  the  brim,  was  upheld  in  the 
paws  of  an  ebony  tiger;  this  basin  received  the 
offerings  of  the  people. 

The  monarch  was  apparelled  in  scarlet  with 
blue  facings,  and  a  girdle  of  sapphires  in  the  form 
of  a  serpent.  His  crown,  too,  was  a  wreathing 
serpent,  with  its  burning  eyes  shining  on  the  front 
of  his  brow.  A  sun  sparkled  on  his  breast,  and 
his  robe  was  wrought  with  stars,  intimating  that 
the  heavens  were  subject  to  hi?  power. 


The  eagle  flash  in  the  eye  of  Annin  had 
changed  to  the  red  glow  of  unholiness — his  pale 
face  was  now  strangely  and  repulsively  beautiful, 
with  the  red  spot  upon  either  hollow  cheek,  and 
the  bright,  mild  smile  upon  his  lips,  the  black 
ringlets  clustered  around  his  bare  throat. 

A  feast  was  spread  without  the  temple — but 
before  any  dared  quaff  the  crimson  wine,  or  taste 
the  glowing  fruit,  their  offering  must  be  placed 
upon  the  shrine  before  the  God. 

Throng  after  throng  danced  down  tlie  glittering 
temple,  bright  with  a  thousand  lamps,  and  laid 
their  gifts  in  the  golden  basin.  These  mostly 
were  of  the  largest  gems  set  in  giant  devices,  as 
ornaments  for  the  king  to  wear  or  bestow  upon 
his  concubines.  The  first  cup  of  wine  was  always 
to  be  given  to  the  ebony  tiger,  and  then  the  God 
descended  and  rninglcd  with  his  worshippers. 

This  night,  while  all  were  gathered  to  wit- 
ness the  ablution  of  the  wine,  suddenh'-,  gliding 
with  slow  gracefulness  through  the  middle  of  the 
gorgeous  temple,  appeared  their  beautiful  Queen. 
With  a  calm  step  she  mounted  the  sacred 
throne,  and  stood  by  the  side  of  her  Lord. 

A  suppressed  murmur  of  wonder  and  anger  ran 
through  the  people  at  this  audacious  act.  They 
expected  to  behold  the  fair  woman  withered  to 
ashes  before  their  eyes,  for  daring  to  place  foot 
within  the  holy  precincts  of  the  throne.  The 
monarch  remained  speechless.  She  turned  her 
face  towards  the  people,  and,  standing  by  the  side 
of  her  husband,  looked  upon  them  a  moment  in 
silence. 

Every  knee  bent  to  the  floor,  so  powerful  was 
the  influence  of  her  face — that  face  inspired  with 
holiness  and  radient  with  a  calm  glow — that  face, 
beautiful  with  ineft'ible  fairness,  and  heavenly  in 
its  transparent  spirituality. 

She  spoke,  and  they  listened  in  mute  attention, 
as  music  falls  from  the  golden  lyres  of  heaven, 
the  words  ran  from  her  lips,  filling  the  air  of  the 
Temple  with  a  sound,  soft  as  the  fall  of  a  silver 
fountain,  yet  terrible  as  the  breath  of  lions  on  the 
denunciations  of  the  spirit  of  wrath. 

She  revealed  to  them  the  existence  of  one 
great  and  Almighty  God — slie  threatened  them 
with  the  punishment  of  their  idolatry — siie  plead- 
ed with  them  to  throw  aside  their  evil  worl:s,  and 
live  forever  in  the  smile  of  the  eternal. 

Their  hearts  shrank  and  shuddered  witli  the 
terror  of  her  inspired  words,  and  leaped  at  the 
sweet  persuasions  of  lier  tongue. 

She  ceased : — silence  hung  over  the  children  of 
Annin. 

The  God  of  the  people  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
pointed  fiercely  to  the  calm  form  of  the  prophetic 
queen. 


THE    UNFORGOTTEN, 


i": 


Wrath  and  defiance  burned  in  his  eyes,  as  he 
chanted, — 

"She  has  profaned  my  holy  altar;— let  her  be 
given  to  the  flames." 

The  crowd  took  up  the  cry,  and  rushed  to  the 
foot  of  the  throne. 

Edre  folded  her  arms  nuekly  over  her  bosom, 
and  lifted  her  face  upward  with  a  soft  smile. 

And  even  as  they  reached  out  to  seize  her  gar- 
ments, a  pair  of  golden  wings  spread  from  her 
white  shoulders,  and  she  floated  upward — upward 
before  their  dazzled  eyes,  till  she  shone  like  a 
star  in  the  doom  of  the  lofty  Temple  and  disap- 
peared. 

The  dove  had  fled  from  the  children  of  Annin 
— and  there  was  none  left  to  save  the  city. 

Even  while  they  gazed  after  the  up-soaring 
Angel,  the  foundations  of  the  building  were 
shook  beneath  them,  they  rushed  from  the  tem- 
ple. There  was  red  light  over  one  of  the  hilh — 
the  mountains  groaned  and  quaked.  There  was 
a  mighty  rush  for  the  narrow  and  difficult  path- 
way. Beautiful  women,  with  gay  dresses  and 
tinkling  ornaments — Musicians  with  their  instru- 
ments cast  firm — the  boasted  God  in  Lis  strange 
apparel,— all— all  rushed  fearfully  towards  escape  I 


'S,  But  the  trembling  of  the  hills  had  thrown  a 
huge  rock  over  the  only  path — there  was  no  es 
cape — none ! 

The  ground  quivered  beneath  tl.eir  frightened 
feet,  as  hastily  they  fled  back  to  the  centre  of  the 
valley. 

"  Ha !  ha !"  chuckled  the  serpent  from  his  cav- 
ern. 

They  grouped  near  the  temple — it  leaned  to 
ward  them  as  if  to  mock  their  trust  in  it. 

Again  their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  burning 
mountain,  flames  darted  from  its  summit — stones 
shot  into  the  air.  Thunder  rolled  from  hill  to 
hill — a  sound !  from  the  mouth  of  the  hill  comes 
pouring  down  an  overwhelming  fierj'  flood  upon 
the  valley  below  !  One  shriek — and  the  children 
of  Annin  shriek  no  more — it  has  covered  them  ! 
The  Temple  reels,  and  with  its  sparkling  turret 
falls  groaning  into  the  burning  flood; — palaces^ 
arches,  fountains,  towers,  —  where  are  they  ^ 
Where  is  the  valley  of  jewels— the  fair  city  of 
Night  I     The  red  lava  has  no  tongue  to  teU. 

They  cast  away  the  holy  dove  from  the  bosom 
of  their  faith — and  when  it  fled  from  their  uuho- 
liness — what  was  there  left  to  tell  of  their  mag- 
nificence ? 


THE    UNFOHGOTTEN. 


Unforgotten,  deathless  story, 
Memories  sad,  and  strange,  and  vast, 

Through  the  present's  pride  and  glory. 
Call  ns  backward  to  the  past.  _j 

With  a  calm  and  chaslen'd  sorrow. 

Through  its  shadows  let  us  tread, 
And  warning  or  e.xaniple  borrow 

From  the  records  of  the  dead. 
Through  the  horn  of  crowded  cities, 

On  the  midnight's  solemn  breath, 
Cometh  forms  and  voices  to  us 

From  the  solitude  of  death. 

Come  the  changed  and  the  changeless, 
With  their  mild,  pale  faces  there. 

Still  as  when  we  gazed  upon  them 
In  the  lone  heart's  first  despair: 

Forms,  whose  hallow'd  presence  gladden'd, 
Like  the  sunbeams'  cheering  rays. 

And  wijose  parting  shadows  sadden'd 
Many  a  mourner's  after  da>s. 

Breasts,  whose  peaceful  precincts cherish'd 

Feelings  of  the  holiest  birth — 
Gentle  streams,  whose  waters  nonrish'd 

The  ocean  tide  of  love  on  earth  ; 

Souls  unshrinking,  valiant,  fearless. 

Ever  foremost  in  the  strife, 
Bearing  onward,  dauntless,  tearless, 

Through  the  battle- |>ath8  of  life; 


Men,  whose  deeds  in  song  and  «lcry 

Earth  shall  slill  recount  with  pride, 
Who,  for  country,  freedom,  glory, 

Nobly  triumph'd,  proudly  died. 
And  the  wise,  the  good,  the  learn'd. 

They,  of  wisdom's  sacred  lore. 
Who  through  Heaven's  light  discern'd 

Truths  unknown  to  man  before  ; 
And  some  whose  sweet,  though  hapless  doty, 

In  their  path  through  life  along, 
Was  10  pour  o'er  all  its  beauty 

Burning  themes  of  love  and  song  : 
And  they  the  dear  ones,  father,  mother, 

Ilufband,  brother,  sister,  wife, 
Trusted  friend,  or  faithful  lover, 

All  that  link'd  the  chain  of  life  : 

Glory,  science,  song,  and  bcanty, 

Memones  deepest  love  that  claim. 
Weeping  earth  with  sacred  duty 

Shall  enshrine  each  hallow'd  name. 
Let  ns  learn  this  lesson  holy. 

That  each  blighted  hope  and  love 
Is  to  make  us  meek  and  lowly, 

Fitting  for  a  home  above. 
Such  is  life  to  day,  to  morrow, 

Through  the  scenes  of  good  or  ill, 
Through  the  tides  of  joy  or  sorrow, 

Some  are  unforgottea  still. 


MELVILL,    THE    PULPIT    ORATOR. 


BT      A     RETURNED       TRAVELER. 


The  faithful  preaching  of  the  Gospel,  is  the 
first  element  of  national  greatness.  It  is  so  for 
every  reatfn.  Indeed,  there  is  no  crmparifon 
bet'ween  it  and  anything  else.  It  surpass es,  out- 
weighs, rises  alove  everything  besides.  It  is 
Christ's  ordained  agency  for  the  accomplishment 
of  his  benign  purposes.  Understood  thus,  it 
challenges  all  competiticn.  Its  right  is  divine, 
its  charter  from  the  skies.  An  evangelical  pulpit 
is  the  glory  of  any  land  ;  and  England  will  rise 
or  fall — her  material  power,  her  enormous  wealth, 
her  martial  skill,  and  her  philosophical  treasures 
notwithstanding — in  the  ratio  of  her  love  to,  dis- 
regard of,  an  evangelical  pulpit.  It  is  the  centre 
of  light,  liberty,  patriotism,  benevolence,  morality, 
and  truth.  It  affords  scope  for  the  loftiest  flights 
of  sanctified  imagination,  for  the  deepest  research- 
es of  thought,  for  the  warmest  gushings  of  zeal, 
for  the  richest  outpourings  of  feeling,  for  the  am- 
plest range  of  literature,  and  for  the  noblest  bursts 
of  eloquence.  Every  characteristic  of  matter, 
every  attribute  of  mind,  and  every  oracle  of  re- 
velation come  to  it,  as  so  many  tiibutary  streams 
to  that  great  river  of  life  which  bears  men  upon 
its  crystal  bosom  to  the  shores  of  the  happy  land. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars — the  earth,  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  ocean — spring  and  autumn,  srramer  and 
winter,  day  and  night,  cold  and  heat — serve  it  for 
similitude,  parable,  and  illustration  ;  the  conscience 
of  every  man  seconds  its  ajipeals,  and  the  induc- 
tions of  reason  accord  with  its  conclusions;  the 
church  of  the  living  God,  to  which  it  teaclies 
knowledge,  wisdom,  and  spiritual  understandirg, 
is  the  great  training  school  for  the  employments 
of  eternity  ;  and  the  principalities  and  powers  in 
heavenly  places,  leam  from  that  church  fresh  les- 
sons regarding  the  manifold  wisdom  of  God !  If 
these  things  be  so,  we  ask  why  poetry  should 
glorify  the  warrior,  and  overlook  tl:e  preacher  ? 
And  why  literature  should  immortalise  the  sen- 
ate and  tlie  bar,  whilst  it  passes  by  the  pulpit,  as 
unworthy  of  its  notice? 

Henry  Melvill  is,  in  the  strict  sense  of  that 
term,  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel.  Some  men  mis- 
take their  profession.  This  is  no  very  uncommon 
tiling   among  clergymen  of  all  denominations. 


We  have  heard  nonsense,  inanities,  and  sometimes 
intolerably  stupid  things  uttered  by  men  in  the 
pulpit.  But  the  influence  of  their  iffice  failed  to 
atone  for  the  want  of  a  commodity  which  clergy- 
men need  as  much  as  laymen — common  sense. 
That  which  pains  us,  under  these  circumstances, 
is,  that  the  sceptical  or  irreligious  hearer  traces 
this  stupidity  to  the  Gospel  itself,  and  concludes 
that  the  New  Testament  must  be  a  very  dull  book, 
seeing  that  those  who  are  understood  to  make  it 
their  daily  study  make  such  a  sorry  exhibition 
in  the  pulpit.  That  all  preachers  should  be  ora- 
tors, or  eloquent  men,  in  the  technical  sense,  is 
not  necessary,  not  even  desirable  ;  but  surely  it 
is  necessary  that  every  minister  should  know 
what  he  is  about.  Our  first  impression  on  hearing 
and  seeing  Mr.  Melvill,  after  he  had  uttered  two 
or  three  sentences,  was  one  of  intense  satisfaction, 
from  the  simple  thought — he  understands  his 
work,  he  is  in  his  place,  he  believes,  and  therefore 
speaks,  and,  if  we  mistake  not,  he  will  give  a 
reason  for  the  hope  that  is  in  him,  whilst,  withal, 
from  the  unaffected  modesty  of  his  demeanor,  we 
expect  that  he  will  give  that  reason  with  meek- 
ness and  fear.  There  is  no  pomposity,  no  glitter, 
none  of  that  offensive  "look-at-me"  idea  which 
naturally  belongs  only  to  weak  men,  but  which 
sometimes,  perhaps  unconsciously,  creeps  upon 
truly  able  men  who  have  acquired  some  degree 
of  popularity.  Mr.  Melvill  is  very  popular,  perhaps 
as  much  so  as  any  clergyman  in  England,  but  he 
does  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  it.  This  is  true 
greatness.  He  seems  to  be  aware  of  but  one 
thing,  one  all-absorbing  thought,  that  he  is  de- 
livering the  message  of  God  to  men,  and  that  he 
must  deliver  his  own  soul  at  the  same  time  from 
the  guilt  of  concealing  any  part  of  that  message. 
"VVe  cannot  resist  the  impression  that  he  reverent- 
ly realises  the  presence  of  his  great  Master,  and 
speaks  of  him  as  in  his  hearing.  The  deep  solem- 
nity and  breathless  attention  of  the  congregation 
prove  that  they  feel  this.  Every  eye  is  fixed 
upon  the  preacher,  and  every  ear  is  open  to  hear 
great  truths  about  God,  and  Christ,  and  the  human 
soul,  and  eternity.  Every  part  of  the  building  is 
full,  (remember  it  is  not  the  day  of  rest,  btit  eleven 


MELVILL,    THE    PULPIT    ORATOR. 


19 


o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning,  in  the  very  heart  of 
busy  London,)  and  many  are  standing,  yet  there  is 
no  sign  of  weariness  :  all  are  ]>rofoundly,  eagerly 
attentive,  as  the  preacher  proceeds  throiigli  a  para- 
graph, increasing  in  rnjiidity  of  utterance  and 
Tolume  of  voice  as  he  aj)proaches  its  close,  "vvhen 
he  seems  to  be  rushing  along  the  narrow  way  to 
heaven,  and  carrying  all  his  hearers  with  him. 
It  is  not  the  fascination  of  his  eye  (though  that 
glows  and  sparkles  with  light,  and,  in  earlier  life, 
must  have  been  uncommonly  brilliant)  that  binds 
the  people  thug,  for  he  reads  every  word  of  his 
sermons,  and  consequently  it  is  but  at  intervals 
that  lie  glances  across  the  congregation.  Kor  do 
we  think  it  is  his  eloquence,  though  that  is  of  no 
common  order.  It  is  what  he  says,  ratlier  than 
how  he  says  it,  that  entrances  the  people.  His 
eloquence  is  certainly  a  great  advantage  to  him  ; 
but  it  is  the  thing  uttered,  at  least  if  we  may 
judge  from  our  own  experience,  that  so  deeply 
interests  the  people.  He  nndtrstavds  the  mean- 
ing of  his  text — the  grand  secret  of  successful 
preaching,  so  far  as  human  agency  is  concerned 
— and  he  gives  his  hearers  to  understand  it  too, 
by  using  clear,  forcible,  and  appropriate  language. 
The  following  passages,  from  a  sermon  we  had 
the  privilege  of  hearing,  will'illustrate  our  mean- 
ing, and  afford  specimens  both  of  Mr.  Melvill's 
theology  and  logic.  The  text  was  Zechariah  xii. 
10  :  "And  I  will  pour  upon  the  house  of  David, 
and  upon  the  inhabitants  of  Jerusalem,  the  spirit 
of  grace  and  of  supplications  :  and  they  shall 
look  upon  me  whom  they  have  pierced,  and  they 
shall  mourn  for  him,  as  one  mourneth  for  his 
only  son,  and  shall  be  in  bitterness  for  liini,  as 
one  that  is  in  bitterness  for  his  first-born."  His 
"plan"  was  simple  and  natural:  first,  he  consid- 
ered what  the  prediction  exhibits  as  yet  to  hap- 
pen to  the  Jews  ;  and  then,  in  what  way,  and  in 
what  degree,  it  may  be  acconunodated  individu- 
ally to  ourselves.  Without  expressing  our  opin- 
ion of  the  exact  truth  of  his  positions  and  reason- 
ings, the  clear  and  manly  style  of  the  argument, 
and  the  brilliancy  of  illustration  thrown  upon  it 
by  his  ardent  imagination,  are  so  characteristic  of 
his  general  manner  withal,  so  finely  adapted  to 
the  pulpit  efiect,  that  I  will  venture  to  reproduce 
some  of  the  remarkable  passages  of  the  sermon. 
He  then  proceeded  thus  : — 

"Now  there  is,"  said  he,"  no  subject  presented 
to  \i3  in  the  unfidfillcd  jn'ophecics  of  Scripture 
that  is  more  adajitcd  to  the  taking  hold  on  the 
mind,  and  engaging  all  its  earnestness,  than  that 
of  the  restoration  of  the  Jews  to  the  land  of  tlieir 
fathers.  Ever  since  the  Romans  came  down  in 
their  fury  upon  Jerusalem — the  ministers  of  the 
vengeance  of  God,  who  had  beea  provoked  to 


cast  off  the  once  favored  people — the  earth  has 
been  strewn  with  the  fragments  of  the  Tribes  ; 
and  persecution  has  proved  unable  to  extermi- 
nate them,  and  kindness  as  unable  to  blend  thciu 
with  the  rest  of  human  kind.  There  has  never 
been  the  least  approach  to  a  polity  or  government 
of  their  own ;  so  that  at  no  time  liave  they  as- 
sumed such  an  ajipcarance  as  should  suggest  the 
probability  of  liicir  combining  under  one  head, 
or  gathering  into  one  land.  Scattered  over  the 
habitable  globe,  strangers  even  where  they  have 
made  themselves  homes,  and  aliens  where  they 
have  long  had  a  dwelling ;  having  been  presen- 
ted to  the  world  under  an  aspect  fitted  to  excite 
its  eittentiiin  and  draw  its  wonder,  their  very  dis- 
persion has  stood  as  an  argument  against  the 
likelihood  of  their  restoration  ;  and  their  separa- 
tion from  every  other  people  has  put  difficulties 
in  the  way  of  any  such  gathering  of  strength  as 
a  great  movement  would  appear  to  demand. 
And  yet,  there  has  been  such  evident  miracle  in 
the  distinction  which  has  been  kept  up  between 
the  Jews  and  the  rest  of  our  race,  that,  even  had 
prophecy  been  silent,  we  might  almost  have 
thought  that  a  people  so  sejiarated  were  reserved 
for  some  signal  occurrence,  for  the  distinction 
cannot  be  accounted  for  iipon  any  natural  prin- 
ciples. Had  not  God  interposed,  and  both  erect- 
ed and  upheld  the  barrier,  it  is  utterly  insup- 
poseable  but  that  all  their  ancient  peculiarities 
would  have  long  ago  departed  ;  so  that  the  Jews 
would  have  retained  none  of  their  original  char- 
acteristics. And  though  it  may  have  been  one 
reason  for  this  continued  miracle,  that  there 
might  be  a  standing  witness  to  tlie  truths  of 
Christianity — a  witness  which  should  supersede 
all  necessity  for  a  fresh  demonstraticju  of  its  au- 
thority— we  may  justly  say  that  this  would  hard- 
ly suffice  to  ex})lain  the  plienomenon.  This  does 
but  place  the  Jews  on  a  level  with  such  cities  as 
Babylon,  or  Tyre,  from  whose  ruins  perpetually 
issues  a  voice  which  attests  the  inspiration  of 
Scripture;  and  we  might  fairly  conclude,  that 
more  was  projiosed  by  the  continued  dispei'sion 
of  a  pco])le,  tiian  by  the  lasting  desolation  of  ji 
town.  However  this  may  be,  prophecy  is  most 
explicit  on  the  great  and  wonderful  fact,  that  the 
Jews,  notwithstanding  their  disjiersion  over  all 
the  districts  of  the  earth,  are  to  be  collected 
together  at  a  season  appointed  of  God,  and  re- 
settled in  the  Canaan  wliidi  has  been  so  long 
trodden  down  by  the  Gentiles.  The  attempt  to 
give  a  purely  spiritual  interpretation  to  a  pre- 
diction bearing  upon  this  fact,  will  always,,  aa  we 
think,  fail  to  afford  satisfoction,  and  that,  too, 
upon  tlie  simple  princij)le,  that  tho  dispersion 
and  restoration  of  the  Jews  are  continually  spoken 


20 


MELVILL,    THE    PULPIT   ORATOR. 


of  by  the  prophets  in  the  same  breath — being 
mentioned  in  one  sentence,  or  occurring  as  parts 
of  one  message  from  God.  And  thei-e  cannot  be 
any  justice  in  giving  a  figurative  interpretation 
to  one  notice  in  a  projihecy,  when  we  know  that 
a  literal  belongs  to  the  preceding.  If  the  Jews  had 
been  only  figuratively  scattered,  I  could  believe 
that  they  would  be  only  figuratively  restored. 
But  whilst  I  know  that  they  have  been  literary 
scattered,  and  whilst  I  find  that  the  scattering 
and  the  restoration  are  announced  in  the  same 
prophecy,  I  must  conclude  that  the  Jews  are  to 
be  literally  reinstated  in  the  possession  of  Canaan 
— that,  not  in  any  spiritual  sense,  but  according 
to  the  plain  meaning  of  the  words,  "  they  shall 
be  gathered  from  among  the  nations  whither  they 
have  gone,  and  brought  again  to  their  own  land." 
And  it  is  at  the  time  of  this  restoration,  or,  rather, 
after  it  shall  have  been  completed,  that  our  text 
will  be  accomplished,  for  the  preceding  parts  of 
the  prophecy  relate  to  a  struggling  in  Judea  and 
Jerusalem,  as  though  the  Jews  were  wrestling 
for  their  own,  and  the  banded  powers  were  set 
upon  their  ejection.  The  representation  is  that 
of  a  mighty  conflict  between  the  Jews  and  other 
nations.  The  Jews  having  gained  a  footing,  the 
powers  of  other  nations  had  leagued  for  their 
destruction;  and  the  conflict  is  terminated 
through  the  direct  interjsosition  of  God.  So  that 
we  should  wish  you  particularly  to  observe,  that 
the  prophecy  or  prediction  of  our  text  is  not  to 
take  effect  until  the  Jews  are  restored  to  the 
possession  of  their  land.  The  course  of  events, 
as  here  traced  out  by  prophecy,  is,  that  restoration 
to  Judea  is  to  precede  their  conversion  to  Chris- 
tianity. And  thus  it  would  seem  they  are  still 
to  be  Jews,  and  not  Christians,  when  they  shall 
pour  into  Judea,  to  rebuild  the  prostrate  Jerusa- 
lem. You  are  to  remember  that,  for  centuries 
past,  these  people  have  not  only  rejected  the  reli- 
gion of  Jesus,  but  they  have  been  also  unobser- 
vant of  the  religion  of  Moses.  According  to  that 
remarkable  prediction  of  Rosea,  they  have  abode 
without  a  shrine,  without  an  image,  without  an 
ephod,  and  without  a  temple.  Though  they 
have  spurned  from  them  Cliristianity,  they  have 
not  been  idolaters :  for  tiiey  have  abode  without 
any  image  and  without  a  temple.  Neither  have 
they  strictly  been  Jews;  for  they  have  abode 
•without  a  sacrifice,  and  without  an  ephod.  In- 
deed, they  have  not  had  the  power,  supposing 
them  to  have  had  the  will,  to  adhere  strictly  to 
the  religion  of  Moses;  for  the  religion  of  Moses  | 
was  in  the  largest  sense  local,  and  its  rites  could 
be  performed  nowhere  but  at  Jerusalem ;  and  to 
be  banished  from  that  city,  was  to  be  placed  un- 
der an  incapacity  of  obeying  the  law.     And  this 


does  not  so  much  exculpate  their  apostacy  from 
Moses  as  aggravate  their  rejection  of  Christ,  for 
they  ought  long  ago  to  have  learned,  from  the 
continued  impossibility  of  being  true  Jews,  that 
God  had  introduced  another  dispensation,  to 
Avhich  it  behoved  them  reverently  to  conform. 
Hence,  the  Jews  have  to  be  brought  to  repentance 
towards  God,  before  they  can  be  brought  to  faith 
towards  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  They  are  to  be 
made  to  see  and  feel  that  God  is  displeased  with 
them  ;  and  this  sight  and  feeling  miist  bring 
them,  in  lowly  contrition,  to  supplicate  forgive- 
ness. In  the  book  of  Leviticus,  this  is  exactly 
what  is  held  as  preliminary  to  their  being  gather- 
ed home  from  their  dispei  sion  among  the  Gentiles. 
"  If  they  shall  confess  their  iniquities,  and  the 
iniquities  of  their  fathers,  with  their  trespass 
which  they  trespassed  against  me,  and  that  also 
they  have  walked  contrary  imto  me :  and  that  I 
also  have  walked  contrary  unto  them,  and  have 
brought  them  into  the  land  of  their  enemies ;  if, 
then,  their  uncircimicised  hearts  be  humbled,  and 
they  then  accept  of  the  punishment  of  their  ini- 
quity, then  will  I  remember  my  covenant  with 
Jacob,  and  my  covenant  with  Isaac,  and  also  my 
covenant  with  Abraham  will  I  remember,  and  I 
will  remember  the  land."  LTpon  their  humbling 
themselves  before  God,  who  has  been  chastening 
them  without  producing  contrition,  they  are  to 
be  received  with  ftivor,  and  restored  to  Judea. 
We  know  this  prophecy  is  almost  silent  as  to  the 
process  through  which  the  scattered  tribes  shall 
be  gathered  from  all  lands — whether  through 
some  open,  miraculous  interference,  or  through 
some  silent,  secret  influence,  inclining  the  exiles 
to  seek  Judea ;  biit  we  know  that  again  its  val- 
leys shall  swarm  with  the  children  of  its  original 
possessors ;  and  we  are  assured  that  when  the 
Jews  shall  have  been  restored  and  resettled, 
there  will  come  up  a  great  array  of  enemies  anx- 
ious to  dispossess,  if  not  to  exterminate  them. 
Then  will  be  the  struggle  of  which  we  have  al- 
ready spoken,  which  is  so  vividly  sketched  in  the 
prophecies  of  Zechariah.  For  a  time  shall  the 
adversaries  prosper,  and  shall  seem  about  to  ac- 
complish their  iniquitous  purposes;  but  then, 
choosing,  as  is  his  wont,  the  moment  of  exigence, 
shall  God  miraculously  interfere,  scatter  their 
enemies,  and  be  a  shield  to  Jerusalem. 

"  This,  as  itwould  seem,  is  to  be  the  time  for  the 
manifestation  of  Christ.  Let  us  not  be  tempted  to 
describe  the  circumstances  of  tlie  manifestation- 
Enough  for  us  to  know  that  the  Jews  shall  own 
that  Redeemer  whom  their  fathers  crucified,  and 
themselves  had  despised.  We  know  they  will 
weep  tears  of  contrition — that  the  mourning 
which  is  described  by  the  prophet  will  be  aa 


MELYILL,  THE  PULPIT  ORATOR. 


21 


though  there  were  '  sackcloth  over  the  land,  aud 
every  family  retiring  within  itself  to  weep  and 
lament.'  They  shall  charge  themselves  with  all 
the  guilt  of  their  ancestors,  arraigning  themselves 
as  his  murderers,  and  bewailing  that  their  own 
bands  should  have  slain  the  Lord  of  life.  Oh  ! 
come  that  glorious  season  when  they  who  have 
been  Clirist's  kinsmen  after  the  flesh,  shall  be  his 
disciples  and  his  worshippers !  Their  exile  has 
been  long!  their  intidclity  has  been  stern !  Oh ! 
for  their  repentance!  oh!  for  their  conversion! 
There  may  be  already  the  harbingers  of  tlie  event, 
which  all  who  love  the  Lord  must  ardently  long 
for.  Who  shall  say  there  is  no  movement 
amongst  the  Jews,  as  though  tliey  could  not  re- 
main in  their  banishment,  but  were  stirred  to  the 
uniting,  at  all  hazards,  to  rebuild  Jerusalem  ? 
Whether  or  not  we  can  see  signs  of  the  nearness 
of  the  event,  sooner  or  later  shall  this  creation  be 
gladdened  by  its  occurrence ;  for  he  who  could 
say,  '  Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  my 
word  shall  not  pass  away' — even  he  hath  declar- 
ed, '  I  will  pour  upon  the  house  of  David,  and 
upon  the  inhabitants  of  Jerusalem,  the  spirit  of 
grace  and  of  supplications :  and  they  shall  look 
upon  me  whom  they  have  pierced.'" 

Prom  the  second  part  of  the  discourse,  we 
quote  a  few  remarkable  sentences : — "  I  am  sure 
that  if  I  could  take  you  where,  extended  on  the 
ground,  lay  the  yet  bleeding  form  of  one  of  your 
fellow-men,  whom  assassins  had  just  rifled  of 
life  ;  and  if  I  could  show  you  that  something  you 
had  said  or  done  had  caused  the  foul  murder,  so 
that  the  assassins  had  been  virtually  your  agents, 
or  instruments,  you  would  be  ready  to  sink  into 
the  earth  in  the  agony  of  your  remorse  aud  self- 
condemnation  ;  you  would  regard  yourself  with 
actual  loathing  and  abhorrence ;  you  would  flee 
from  the  scene  as  if  pursued  by  a  fury  ;  and  you 
would  imagine  all  nature  \ip  in  arms  to  take  ven- 
geance on  your  crime.  And  though  it  is  not  this 
wild  and  fierce  anguish  that  we  wish  to  excite  in 
you, through  the  spectacle  of  a  bleeding  Redeemer, 
we  cannot  think  that  you  feel  as  you  ought  till 
you  feel  that  you  have  slain  him — till  you  mourn 
for  him  according!}-  as  your  victim,  in  being  vour 
Deliverer.  We  take  you,  therefore,  to  Calvary, 
where  the  cross  has  been  erected,  and  Jesus  of 
Jfazareth  fastened  to  it  as  a  sacrifice ;  and  we 
want  you,  while  you  put  away  from  you  all  the 
spectacle  of  the  thorns  and  soldiers,  to  stand  there 
alone  with  the  dying  Redeemer.  Does  the  reply 
of  Nathan,  'niou  art  tlie  man,*  come  home  to 
each  of  you,  as  the  question  is  proposed,  '  Who 
hath  done  this  deed,  on  which  the  sun  dares  not 
look?'  It  ought  to  do  so;  you  do  not  know 
yourselves  till  you  knowyourselveethe  murdcrci"3 


of  Christ.  You  are  to  feel  as  though  put  upon 
trial  as  actors  in  the  doleful  tragedy ;  and  so 
moved  as  to  pronounce  against  yourselves  the 
verdity.  Guilty  !  guilty !— a  verdict  echoed  from, 
all  creation,  animate  and  inanimate  1  And  though 
the  fact  of  being  thus  convicted  of  murder  may 
not,  as  in  the  former  supposed  case,  send  you 
aghast  and  terrified  from  the  scene,  it  cannot  fail 
to  till  you  with  sorrow  and  remorse.  In  seeing 
and  confessing  your  crime,  you  will  also  see  and 
confess  your  deliverance,  and  you  will  remain  to 
weep  and  adore,  where  you  have  learned  the  foul 
deed  you  have  wrought.  You  may  look  upon 
Christ  coldly  and  carelessly  so  long  as  you  regard 
his  crucifixion  merely  as  an  historical  fact,  and 
the  Jews  and  Romans  as  alone  his  executioners  ; 
but  when  you  are  brought  to  feel  your  own  share 
in  the  crucifixion,  you  will  then  thoroughly  know 
that  your  pardon  was  possible ;  the  heart  will  be 
melted  ;  and  you  will  shed  tears  for  the  sins  for 
which  the  Redeemer  shed  blood.  And  this  is  in 
precise  agreement  with  the  proj)heey  before  u?. 
Only  allow  it  to  come  to  pass  that  you  look  on 
him  whom  youhave  pierced — not  ■whom  the  Jews, 
not  whom  the  Romans,  but  whom  you  yourselves 
have  pierced  ;  and  it  must  also  come  to  pass  that, 
in  the  words  of  our  text,  you  will  '  mourn  for  liim 
as  one  mourneth  for  an  only  son,  and  be  in  bit- 
terness for  him  as  one  that  is  in  bitterness  for  his 
first-born. 

Mr.  Melvill's  gesture  is  remarkable.  His  hands 
are  occupied  with  his  manuscript,  but  his  head 
does  duty  for  them.  He  bends  it  to  the  desk,  right 
and  left  alternately,  with  a  rapidity  increased 
with  the  force  of  his  thoughts,  as  if  discharging 
his  ideas  among  the  congregation. .  We  have 
alread}'  mentioned  his  eloquence.  To  hear  him 
read  the  magnificent  "  Te  Deum,"  is  worth  a  jour- 
ney of  miles.  The  following  grand  passage,  es^ 
pecially,  he  utters  with  thrilling  cff"cct : — 

'•"We  praiise  thee. 0  God:  we  acknowledge  thee  to  be  the  Lord, 
AU  the  earth  doth  worship  thee,  the  Father  everlasting. 
To  thee  all  angels  cry  aloud  :  the  heavens,  and  all  the 

powers  therein. 
To  thee  cherubim  and  seraphim  continually  do  cry, 
Holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord  God  of  Sabaoth  ; 
Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  ihe  majesty  of  thy  glory. 
The  glorious  company  of  the  apostles  praise  thee  : 
The  goodly  fellowship  of  tlie  prophets  praise  thee  : 
The  noble  army  of  martyrs  praise  thee  : 
The  holy  church  throughout  all  the  world  doth  acknow- 
ledge thee, 
The  father  of  an  infinite  majesty  ; 
Thine  honorable,  true,  and  only  Son  ; 
Also  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  Comforter. 
Thou  art  the  King  of  Glory,  0  Christ.'" 

Hark  !  how  the  last  quoted  lines  ring  through  the 
church,  while  every  head  is  bent — let  us  hope, 
with  real   reverence   and    love — as  if   meeting 


22 


AN   HOITR    WTTTI    THOMAS    P.    HUNT. 


the  grand  choir  of  heaven  with  its  marvellous 
utterance,  "  "Wortliy  is  the  Lamb  that  was  slain !" 
But  the  service  is  over.  What  a  change  !  We 
.  are  opposite  the  Bank  of  England,  amidst  the 
rush,  the  throng,  the  pressure,  the  voice  of  the 
multitudes,  every  one  looking,  for  his  gain  from 
his  quarter.  Everything  is  earthl}^  The  con- 
trast is  violent.     We  feel  as  if  fallen,  as  if  forcibly 


driven  out  of  paradise,  to  grub  for  the  bread  that 
perisheth  among  the  mold  and  filth  of  a  polluted 
world ;  yet,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  we  realise 
the  value  of  those  divine  truths  to  which  we  have 
been  listening,  feel  their  sustaining  power,  and 
their  animatingjinfluence,  and  are  persuaded  that 
an  evengelieal  ministry  is  the  first  element  of 
national  greatness. 


AN   HOUR    WITH    THOMAS    P.  HUNT. 


BY      KEV.      JOSEPH 


T  0  T  T  L  E 


TuE  lives  of  some  really  great  men  are  often 
as  unruffled  in  their  flow  as  a  river.  Their  occu- 
pations, or  the  times  in  which  they  live,  are  bar- 
ren of  incident.  Other  men,  inferior  in  station, 
and  not  distinguished  by  the  attentions  of  the  rich 
and  great,  pass  lives  which  arc  as  broken  as  the 
mountain  torrent.  By  disposition,  choice,  and 
position,  they  are  continually  bearing  part  in 
some  thrilling  incidents,  in  which  all  the  qualities 
of  heart  and  mind,  sucli  as  bravery,  self-posses, 
sion,  wit,  sarcasm,  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
come  into  exercise.  A  truly  great  man  may 
govern  a  kingdom,  and  yet  Ids  life  be  so  barren 
of  incident,  as  to  be  as  insipid  to  the  general  reader 
as  a  ciiapter  in  Whately's  Logic,  whilst  tlie  life 
of  another  man,  in  no  wise  his  superior,  will  be 
read  v%'it]i  avidity.  It  was  the  fine  remark  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  tliat  could  a  convention  of  all 
the  great  men  in  tlie  world  be  called,  by  acclama- 
tion Sir  Isaac  Newton  would  be  elected  its  Presi- 
dent. And  yet  the  biography  of  I^ewton  has  not 
been  devoureii  witli  half  the  relish  witli  whicli 
Barrow's  Bible  in  Spain,  or  hisGipsey,  Priest,  and 
Scholar  were  received.  Between  the  men  there 
can  be  no  comparison,  and  yet  the  inferior  com- 
mands the  popular  interest,  because  of  liis  thrill- 
ing incidents. 

Rev.  Tiiomas  P.  Hunt  has  never  pretended,  nor 
has  his  admirers  claimed  it,  that  he  is  the  greatest 
man,  or  even  tlie  greatest  lecturer  on  Temper- 
ance, the  world  has  yet  produced.  He  has  never 
been  afflicted  witli  an  infirmity  common  to  many 
of  Ills  fellow  craftsmen,  especially  those  of  very 
moderate  abilities,  that  no  good  ever  was  done 
in  the  cause  of  Temperance  until  he  put  his 
shoulder  to  the  wheel,  and  nothing  will  be  done 


after  he  is  gone.  His  friends  are  quite  cer- 
tain tiiat  he  is  a  man  of  no  ordinary  mind-  They 
have  no  reason  to  doubt  his  courage,  nor  his 
kindness,  and  those  who  fall  under  liis  lash,  have 
as  little  reason  to  doubt  his  severity.  But  in 
private,  with  his  friends,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive 
how  anyone  could  be  more  entertaining,  and  that 
not  merely  as  a  fine  declaimer  of  personal  anec- 
dotes, but  a  ripe,  discriminating  thinker,  with  the 
rare  faculty  of  expressing  his  thoughts  with  the 
utmost  simplicity,  and  yet  so  brilliantly,  that  tliey 
fasten  themselves  on  the  memory  like  the  nail 
driven  in  a  sure  place. 

Not  long  since,  at  the  table  of  a  friend,  he  re- 
peated some  anecdotes,  the  most  of  which  be- 
longed to  a  dependent  series,  all  bearing  on  one 
point,  which  was  the  expediency  and  reward  of 
keejiing  tlie  Sabbath.  Some  years  since  he  made 
a  visit  to  the  South.  He  had  reached  Wheeling 
on  the  Ohio  river,  and,  with  his  usual  directness, 
asked  of  the  steamboat  captain,  if  he  would  reach 
Cincinnati  before  tlie  Sabbath  ;  for, says  Mr.Hunt, 
"  I  have  made  a  resolution  that  for  no  reason  not 
good  for  the  judgment  day  will  I  travel  on  the 
Sabbath  " 

'•  We  shall  be  in  Cincinnati  by  Friday  night,'' 
said  tlie  Captain,  and  witli  that  assurance  Mr.  H. 
paid  his  passage  money. 

But  the  ice  was  running,  and  the  boat  was  hin- 
dered, so  that  they  were  obliged  to  tie  her  to  the 
shore  for  a  day.  The  hands  being  idle,  Mr.  H. 
obtained  permission  to  address  them  several 
times.  His  shrewd,  amusing,  and  in  general 
solemn  appeals,  so  won  upon  those  brawny  boat- 
men that  every  one  of  them  signed  the  pledge, 
and  he  even  induced  the  barkeeper  to  shut  up  his 


AN    HOUR    WITH    THOMAS    P.    HUNT. 


23 


shop,  with  a  promise  never  again  to  engage  in 
such  "  a  dirty  business.'' 

By  tliis  time  Mr.  H.  had  become  a  pet  with 
the  boatmen  and  officers,  and  as  it  began  to  be 
evident  that  Cincinnati  could  not  be  reached  by 
the  Sabbath,  he  reminded  the  Captain  of  his 
promise.  This  led  to  a  discussion,  in  whicii  Mr. 
H.,  the  Captain,  and  a  minister  of  the  Cumber- 
land Presbyterian  order  engaged.  The  Captain 
entreated  him  to  stay  on  board ;  for,  said  he,  "  I 
will  stop  every  unnecessary  work,  and  employ 
the  fewest  number  of  hands  possible,  and  we  will 
assemble  as  often  as  you  please  for  preacliing." 

Mr.  H.  replied  by  asking,  "  How  could  1  preach 
to  you  sinners,  and  yet  be  in  open  violation  of 
one  of  God's  plainest  commands,  and  you  all  the 
time  knowing  it  ?" 

The  Cumberland  Presbyterian  said,  "We  have 
paid  our  passage  money,  and  Providence  liaving 
kept  U3  back,  it  is  plainly  the  will  of  Providence 
that  we  should  go  on." 

"  No  sir,"  replied  Mr.  H.  "  my  doctrine  is  dif- 
ferent from  that.  If  Providence  holds  us  back,  I 
think  we  should  obey  Providence  by  submitting, 
and  not  by  actual  disobedience.  With  you,  Sir, 
it  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  dollars,  but  I  have 
been  taught  that  dollars  are  not  eo  safe  a  stand- 
ard for  the  regulation  of  duty  &b  principled 

No  arguments  could  change  Mr.  H.'s  determi- 
nation As  a  last  effort  the  Captain  came  to  him 
privately,  and  said,  "  If  you  will  stay  on  board,  we 
will  tie  up  as  long  as  we  can  and  yet  get  the 
boat  to  Cincinnati  in  time  to  take  her  place  in 
the  line,  and  you  shall  have  all  tlie  access  you 
wish  to  the  hands,  officers,  and  passengers." 

"  No,  Captain,  I  can't  do  it ;  besides,  as  you  seem 
so  anxious  to  have  preaching  on  board,  you  will 
have  one  preacher  with  you  at  any  rate.  Em- 
ploy him  to-morrow." 

"  Employ   him,  the   (u^ing    a   severe 

epithet)  to  preach,  when  he,  a  preacher,  acts  and 
talks  as  if  he  didn't  know  there  is  a  Sunday  ! 
No,  sir,  he  doesn't  preach  on  my  boat?" 

The  Captain  now  offered  to  refund  Mr.  H.'s  pas- 
sage monev,  but  he  refused  it  with  tlie  remark, "  1 
will  not  take  it  of  you,  lest,  after  this  discussion, 
you  conclude  tliat  I  am  governed  by  dollars,  and 
not  by  principle." 

He  was  landed  at  Ripley,  and  a  gentlemanly 
man,  with  whom  he  had  formed  no  acquaintance, 
butwlio  had  closely  watched  the  Sabbath  keeping 
discussion,  also  landed  at  that  town.  He  now 
addressed  Mr.  Hunt,  "Shall  I  order  your  baggage 
to  one  of  the  best  liotels  in  the  place  ?  As  you 
are  not  acquainted  here,  with  your  permission  I 
will  do  it." 

The  gentleman  then  conducted  him  to  a  distant 


part  of  the  town,  to  an  elegant  mansion,  which  he 
of  couse  concluded  must  be  a  private  boarding 
house,  and  was  not  undeceived  until,  after  the 
first  service,  he  accompanied  Mr.  Rankin,  the 
Presbyterian  minister,  home,  who  asked  him  at 
what  hotel  he  stopped.  Mr.  H.  told  him,  "  he  did 
not  know  the  name  of  it,  but  I  believe  the  gentle- 
man you  saw  me  with  keeps  it !" 

Mr.  Rankin  could  not  restrain  his  laughter  at 
this,  as  he  saw  the  whole  tiling.  The  gentleman 
was  one  uf  the  wealthiest  men  in  town,  and  had 
taken  Mr.  Hunt  to  his  own  residence. 

The  ne.xt  Saturday  night  found  Mr.  Hunt 
landed  on  a  miserable  wharf-boat  at  Memphis, 
but  the  Captain  unsolicited  had  refunded  a  part 
of  his  money.  On  Sabbath  morning  a  gentleman 
inquired  at  the  wharf-boat  "if  there  was  not  a 
minister  there  ?"  He  was  told  "  there  was  a  man 
there  who  kept  himself  close  enough  for  a  minis- 
ter." 'ihis  resulted  in  Mr.  H.'s  supplying  the 
pulpit  of  the  Presbyterian  minister,  who  was  sick, 
and  a  llber.il  payment  fur  the  services,  which  the 
good  people  delicately  called  "  money  to  pay  his 
passage."  "  So  that,"  said  Mr.  Hunt,  "  I  was  paid 
double  passage  money  for  keeping  the  Sabbath." 
.'-'everal  days  of  that  week  were  spent  in  Vicks- 
burgli,  wliich  town  was  thrown  into  the  greatest 
excitement,  by  the  tremendous  attacks  made  on 
"  the  liquor  sellers,"  by  the  most  fearless  cham- 
pion of  Temperance  in  Christendom.  They 
threatened  to  mob  him ;  but  Mr.  H.  went  straight 
to  their  head-quarters,  and,  with  a  fearless  front 
and  a  merry  laugh,  told  them,  "you  had  better 
think  of  mobbing  me  !  You  have  become  noted 
in  Vicksburgh  for  hanging  the  gamblers,  and  if 
you  don't  toe  the  track  pretty  straight,  Til  have 
you  all  swung  up  1"  Tliere  was  so  much  genuine 
wit  in  his  words,  and  so  much  Virginia  chivalry, 
that  he  disarmed  the  most  of  them.  Some  few 
retained  their  rage,  but  Mr.  H.  now  had  enough 
defenders  from  personal  violence. 

.\s  soon  as  Mr.  H.  had  left  Vicksburgh,  the 
drunken  editor  of  one  of  their  papers  inserted  an 
affidavit,  signed  and  sworn  to  by  two  men,  de- 
claring that  they  had  heard  him  say,  on  board 
the  boat  between  Memphis  and  Vicksburgh, 
"  that  his  principal  business  at  the  south  was  to 
stir  up  insurrections  among  the  slaves. 

On  Saturday  he  reached  Grand  Gulph,by  land, 
and,  according  to  his  resolution,  tarried  over  the 
Sabbath,  altliough  several  boats  passed  there  that 
night  and  on  Sunday.  Somewhat  to  his  chagrin, 
two  or  three  days  passed  before  a  boat  came 
alontr  bound  f.ir  New  Orleans.  It  was  during  one 
of  theso  days  that  he  was  down  at  the  river, 
when  a  fine,  athletic  man  passed  by,  and  Mr.  H. 
!  accosted  him,  "  Is  not  your  name  A ?"   "  Ye£> 


24 


AN    HOUR    WITH    THOMAS    P.    HUNT. 


sir,  that  is  my  name,  why  do  you  ask  that  ques- 
tion ?"    "  Because  you  are  the  very  image  of  my 

old  classmate  A ,  and  my  dearest  friend  in 

the  Old  Dominion."  "  What,"  said  tlie  young 
man,  striding  up  to  him,  "you  are  not  Thomas  P. 
Hunt,  my  father's  friend,  are  you  ?"     "  Yes,  I  am 

the  friend  of  A ,  in  Virginia." 

"  If  you  are,"  saitl  A.  witli  an  energy  that 
startled  Mr.  H.,  '•  I  will  kill  him."  "  Wliat  do  you 
mean  ?"  "I  mean  if  you  are  my  father's  friend, 
I'll  kill  the  scoundrel."  It  was  sometime  be- 
fore Mr.  H.'s  new  acquaiotance  could  calm  him- 
self sufficiently  to  tell  him  about  tlie  affidavit 
which  the  Vicksburgh  editor  had  published,  and 
which  had  led  him  not  to  inquire  anytliing  about 
the  stranger,  whose  name  he  had  learned  to  be 
Hunt.  "Now  that  I  tind  you  are  my  father's 
friend  Hunt,"  said  A.,  "  I  know  the  scoundrel  has 
published  a  base  fabrication,  and  I'll  kill  him 
for  it." 

To  every  argument  which  Mr.  H.  could  address 
to  him,  recommending  a  mild  course,  A.'s  only 
answer  was,  "  I'll  kill  the  scoundrel  for  lying  about 
my  father's  friend." 

In  his  turn,  A.  now  advised  Mr.  Hunt  not  to 
proceed  to  New  Orleans,  for  said  he,  this  scur- 
rilous fabrication  has  gone  before  you,  and  for 
you  to  go  now  is  at  the  risk  of  Ife."  To  this  Mr. 
H.  replied  that  he  would  risk  it,  and  that  he 
would  go  at  any  rate.  And  so  they  parted,  and 
we  shall  presently  hear  of  A.  again.  j 

On  reaching  New  Orleans,  Mr.  H.  sent  an  ad-  i 
vertisemeut  for  a  lecture  on  Teaiperance  to  the 
"Picayune,"  and  Mr.  Kendall,  the  editor,  sent  a 
messenger  requesting  Mr.  Hunt  wou!d  come  to 
his  office  immediately.  On  reacliing  the  office, 
Mr.  Kendall  called  his  attention  to  the  Vicks- 
burgh affidavit,  and  said,  "Mr.  Hunt,  it  will  not 
do  for  you  to  lecture  in  New  Orleans,  for  it  will 
be  attended  with  a  riot." 

"Well,  let  the  riot  come,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
am  willing  to  risk  it." 

"But  we  can't  publish  your  advertisement, Mr. 
Hunt,  when  we  know  that  with  such  a  firebrand 
as  this  affidavit,  the  rumsellers  in  New  Orleans 
can  get  up  an  excitement  whicli  must  end  in 
blood." 

"Mr.  Kendall,  I  am  willing  to  risk  even  that 
affidavit,  because  it  bears  on  its  face  its  own 
falsehood." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Kendall. 
"Only  just  think  what  it  states,"  said  Mr. 
Hunt,  "  that  I  said  publicly  on  a  Mississippi 
steamboat,  tliat  my  principal  business  at  the  south 
was  to  stir  up  insurrections  anjong  the  slaves  ! 
Who  doesn't  know,  that  if  I  had  intimated  such 
a  thing,  even  by  the  darkest  hint,  that  I  would 


have  been  thrown  over-board,  by  the  slave  owners 
on  that  boat  ?" 

"  I  confess,"  said  Kendall,  "I  now  see  it  must 
be  a  falsehood,  and  if  we  can  make  others  think 

so " 

At  this  moment  the  junior  editor,  who  had  been 
looking  over  some  papers  just  brought  in,  burst 
into  a  loud  laugh,  exclaiming,  "  You  may  publish 
Mr.  Hunt's  advertisement  safely  now,  for  here  is 
a  complete  refutation  of  the  affidavit."  He  then 
read  from  one  of  the  Vicksburgh  papers,  an 
account,  which  stated  that  Mr.  A.  of  Grand  Gulph 
j  had  written  a  most  severe  letter  to  the  editor  who 
published  the  affidavit,  applying  to  him  the  most 
opprobrious  epithets  in  the  English  language, 
and  telling  the  editor  if  he  did  not  challenge  him 
to  fight  a  duel,  he  would  come  up  to  Vicksburgh, 
and  publicly  kick  the  life  out  of  him  as  he  would 
a  mad-dog. 

The  account  proceeded  to  say  that  the  editor 
wrote  to  A.  that  he  could  not  come  down  to 
Grand  Gulph,  but  if  he  (A.)  would  come  up  to 
Vicksburgh,  he  would  challenge  him.  A.  hurried 
up  and  the  duel  was  arranged,  but  to  the  editor's 
horror,  (he  was  an  old  duelist,  and  a  prime  shot 
with  the  pistol,)  A.  chose  as  the  weapons,  double- 
barrelled  guns  loaded  with  slugs  and  buckshot. 
The  editor  tried  to  back  out,  but  A.  told  him, 
"  No,  sir,  we  meet  with  these  weapons.  I  am  not 
on  equal  terms  with  you  with  the  pistol,  but  I 
can  use  a  double  barrelled  gun  so  well,  that  at 
six  paces  I  know  I  can  kill  you,  no  matter  what 
happens  to  me." 

The  bully's  knees  trembled,  and  he  began  to 
beg ;  but  A,  insisted  more  sharply  than  ever, 
that  he  must  fight  or  be  kicked  ignominiously, 
or  else  confess,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  that 
the  affidavit  was  a  sheer,  malicious  fabrication, 
and  then  publish  the  confession  in  his  own  j^aper. 
So  completely  had  the  bold  A  obtained  the  mas- 
tery over  him,  that  the  man,  who  had  killed 
several  in  single  combat,  accepted  the  hard  con- 
dition, and  actually  complied  with  it. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Mr.  Kendall  forthwith 
inserted  Mr.  Hunt's  advertisement,  as  well  as  the 


account  of  A.'s 


meetmg 


with   the  Vicksbursh 


libeller,  and  he  lectured  several  times  with  great 
popularity,  and  without  opposition. 

Said  Mr.  Hunt,  "Had  I  taken  the  boat  on 
Saturday  night  or  Sunday,  nothing  would  have 
soved  me  from  a  riot,  in  wliich  I  might  have  lost 
my  life.  My  staying  in  Grand  Gulph  over  Sun- 
day, and  in  consequence,  being  detained  several 
days  after  that,  was  just  the  means  which  Provi. 
dence  used  in  refuting,  in  so  strange  a  way,  the 
falsehood  which  the  liquor  sellers  had  started 
agaiast  me."  f^ 


AN    HOUR    WITU    THOMAS    T.    HUKT, 


25 


There  is  another  fine  anecdote  of  this  rensark- 
able  man,  wliiuh  I  tliink  has  never  been  pub- 
lished. It  occurred  some  years  since,  whilst  Mr. 
Hunt  was  lecturing  in  Philadelphia.  He  spoke 
in  all  parts  of  the  city,  in  churches,  halls,  and  at 
every  place  of  concourse  where  he  coidd  get  an 
opportunity.  Crowds  listened  to  him,  and,  as  in 
all  cases  of  high  excitement,  two  parties  were 
formed.  One  party  sympathized  with  the  bold 
lecturer,  on  the  real  rights  of  women  and  chil- 
dren, as  affected  by  rum  ;  the  other  were  of  the 
kind,  who,  feeling  that  their  craft  was  in  danger, 
shouted  long  and  loud,  "  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians !"  At  last  the  excitement  attained  such 
a  height,  that  a  notice  appeared  in  one  of  the 
daily  papers,  calling  "  for  a  meeting  of  the  friends 
of  equal  rights,  and  the  enemies  of  priestcraft,  at 
F 's  Hotel." 

Mr.  Hunt  went  immediately  to  a  man  exten- 
sively engaged  in  the  liquor  business,  who,  whilst 
he  was  one  of  the  warmest  advocates  of  the  equal 
rights  and  anti-priestcraft  meeting,  was  person- 
ally unacquainted  with  the  very  man  whose 
Bcorching  words  had  raised  the  storm,  and  whom 
they  intended  to  put  down  by  the  meeting. 

"I  have  called  on  you  this  morning,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  H.  to  the  rumseller,  "  to  ask  you  if  this  call 
for  a  meeting  of  the  friends  of  equal  rights,  and 
the  enemies  of  priestcraft,  is  given  in  good  faith  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  it  is  in  good  faith,"  was  the 
answer. 

"Then  I  will  attend  the  meeting,  for  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  outdone  by  any  friend  of  equal  rights, 
or  any  enemy  of  priestcraft.  I  am  both,  and  I 
will  thank  you  to  say  to  the  originators  of  the 
meeting  that  I  will  be  there,  ily  name  is  Thomas 
P.  Hunt.     Good  morning,  sir." 

TTithout  farther  ceremony  he  walked  off,  leav- 
ing the  poor  man  in  a  sad  state  of  anger  and 
trepidation.  The  imwelcome  news  was  circu- 
lated through  the  circles  most  interested,  and 
produced  vioh  nt  explosions  of  anger.  Some  of 
them  said  if  "the  old  hunchback"  came  they 
would  kill  him,  or  they  would  tar  and  feather 
him,  or  they  would  have  vengeance  on  him  in 
some  way.  They  managed  to  get  these  threats 
to  Mr.  H.'s  ear,  in  order  to  intinndate  him,  but 
he  only  laughed  at  their  threats,  and  said  ho 
would  go  to  the  meeting  at  all  hazards. 

At  the  hour  of  meeting  he  stood  on  the  thres- 
hold of  F.'s  Hotel,  and  was  met  by  Mrs.  F.,  who 
entreated  him  not  to  go  in,  for  he  would  be 
killed.  Then  the  landlord  himself  came  out,  and 
begged  him  to  desist  from  going  in,  "  because,'' 
said  he,  "  the  men  are  in  a  rage,  and  some  act  of 
violence  will  be  committed,  whicl^ill  not  only 


injure  you,  but  me  also,  because  done  in  my 
house." 

"I  shall  go  in,  sir,"  was  all  the  reply  he  could 
get,  and  go  in  he  did.  Mr.  H.  says  the  manifes- 
tations of  rage  which  met  him  when  he  appeared 
e.xceeded  anything  he  ever  heard  or  saw.  With- 
out noticing  it,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  modera- 
tor's chair.  To  carry  out  the  arrangement  he 
hired  one  of  the  best  stenographers  in  the  city  to 
be  present,  giving  him  some  instructions  how  to 
demean  himself  In  a  few  minutes  an  old  gray- 
headed-rumseller  was  called  to  the  cliair,  and  a 
resolution  passed,  "that  all  persons  not  friendly 
to  the  objects  of  the  meeting  leave  the  room." 

On  the  strength  of  this  several  jiersons  were 
turned  out  without  ceremony,  and  they  attempted 
the  same  thing  with  Mr.  H.;  but  he  said,  "  Xo, 
gentlemen,  I  will  not  leave  the  room.  I  have  a 
right  here.  You  have  called  a  meeting  of  the 
friends  of  equal  rights,  and  the  enemies  of  jtriest- 
craft.  There  is  no  greater  friend  of  equal  rights, 
and  no  greater  enemy  of  priestcraft  in  this  city 
than  I  am.  Besides,  one  of  your  princijial  men 
assured  rae  this  morning  that  this  cull  was  made 
in  good  faith.  I  am  here  by  my  own  right,  and 
will  not  leave  the  room  unless  you  carry  me  out 
dead."  There  are  but  few  more  resolute  men 
than  the  man  who  made  that  reply. 

The  whole  assembly  was  in  an  uproar,  and 
voUies  of  oaths  and  threats  were  fired  at  the 
diminutive  man  who  had  dared  to  brave  the 
lion  in  his  den.  To  all  this  Mr.  II.  said,  "  You 
talk  of  violence  ;  if  you  should  lay  your  finger  on 
me,  I  will  have  your  rum -holes  torn  down  over 
your  heads !" 

"How  would  you  do  that,  old  man?"  scorn- 
fully asked  a  man  who  figured  ^prominently  in 
the  scene. 

"How?  If  I  coidd  not  get  any  other  help' 
the  fish-women  would  do  it  at  a  sign  from  me. 
The  people,  especially  the  poor  people  of  I'liila- 
delphia,  are  beginning  to  conclude  that  some 
gentlemen  of  your  cloth  are  ripe  for  a  taste  of 
hemp,  and  if  you  do  not  carry  yourselves  erect, 
you  will  get  it  ?"' 

Tiie  long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  he  braved 
them  out,  and  completely  cowed  them,  and  then 
arose  to  make  a  motion  to  the  effect,  "That  as  this 
is  a  meeting  of  the  friends  of  equal  rights,  and 
the  enemies  of  priestcraft,  we  do  challenge  the 
friends  of  Temperance  to  meet  us  in  the  Chinese 
Buildings,  publicly  to  discuss  the  relative  bear- 
ings of  Temperance  and  liquor-selling,  on  equal 
rights  and  trvie  religion!" 

"  And  for  my  part,"  said  the  mover,  "  I  will 
pledge  the  Temperance  community  to  meet  you 


26 


THE    OLD    SCOTCH    COUPLE. 


"^vlien,  and  where  you  will,  and  to  discuss  this 
subject  as  long  as  you  will.  The  Temperance 
coninnuiity  will  pay  half  of  all  expenses;  or,  if 
this  meeting  will  only  pass  this  motion,  I  will 
engage  that  you  need  not  pay  a  cent  of  the  ex- 
penses !" 

He  tlien  occupied  the  floor  some  three  quarters 
of  an  hour,  in  a  speech  replete  with  wit,  and 
sarcasm,  and  invective ;  and,  in  spite  of  occasional 


interruptions,  compelled  his  unwilling  auditory 
to  hear  him  through. 

The  stenographer,  by  some  adriot  move,  saved 
himself  from  being  turned  out,  and  the  next 
morning  the  meeting  was  reported  at  length  in 
the  papers,  to  the  no  small  merriment  of  thou- 
sands, and  the  concealed  chagrin  of  those  who 
had  been  so  completely  beaten  with  their  own 
weapons,  and  on  their  own  ground. 


THE   OLD    SCOTCH   COUPLE. 


BY      R  D  T  H      B 


It  was  for  many  years  my  duty  and  privilege 
to  make  one  of  a  nimiber  of  individuals  who 
visited  monthly  throTigh  our  little  village,  leaving 
at  each  house  one  of  those  little  messages  of  truth, 
a  tract.  Amid  the  many  discouragements  and 
trials  attending  this  humble  labor,  there  wei-e 
still  some  things  cheering  and  encouraging  to  the 
heart.  While  to  some  our  visits  were  matters  of 
perfect  indifference,  and  to  others  an  unwelcome 
interruption,  there  were  some  few  places  where 
our  entrance  was  hailed  with  delight.  The  dim 
eye  brightened,  and  the  feeble  arm  was  stretched 
out  to  welcome  us,  and  we  went  forth  from  those 
houses  encoui-aged  and  strengthened  for  the  work 
before  us. 

That  part  of  the  vijlage  which  formed  my 
"  district "  was  a  street  of  straggling  houses,  each 
with  its  little  court-yard  and  flower  garden  ; 
these  were  not  the  dwellings  of  the  very  poor, 
but  of  those  just  above  that  class,  those  who 
were  too  proud  to  subsist  on  charity,  and  just 
managed  to  live  by  the  labor  of  their  own  hands. 
As  I  walked  through  this  little  by-street  last 
summei',  and  noticed  the  pretty  flowers,  and  the 
climbing  vines  by  each  cottage  door,  I  thought  to 
myself,  how  contagious  and  how  elevating  is  the 
love  of  the  cultivation  of  flowers.  I  remember 
when  I  was  a  child  being  sent  of  an  errand 
thi-ough  this  vei'y  street;  and  as  I  picked  my 
way  along  through  the  mud,  I  saw  no  beautiful 
flowers  and  pretty  court-yards,  with  their  fresh 
green  grass;  no  vigorous  shrubbery  or  luxuriant 
climbers.     What  had  brought  about  the  change  ? 

Wliy,  a  few  years  ago  one  of  the  cottages  was 
purchased  by  a  stranger;  he  was  a  mason  by  trade, 
a  poor  man,  no  better  off  than  his  neighbors ; 


but  he  did  not  think  that  for  that  reason  he  need 
forever  live  in  the  midst  of  mud  and  filth,  and 
have  no  bright  beautiful  things  about  him.  K"o  ; 
John  Wilkes  believed  in  making  the  most  of  the 
good  things  which  even  he  in  his  poverty  might 
enjoy.  And  soon  the  old  cottage  appeared  in  anew 
white  dress,  and  looked  so  pretty  with  its  neat  cali- 
co window  curtains,  that  the  people  about  thought 
the  Wilkes's  must  be  getting  proud,  and  begin- 
ning to  feel  better  than  their  neighbors.  And 
in  the  spring,  when  they  saw  the  grass  springing 
up,  and  the  pretty  borders,  in  John  Wilkes'  gar- 
den, and  the  bright  crocuses  and  daisies  showing 
their  heads,  they  were  sure  he  was  proud,  and 
felt  better  than  his  neighbors.  Not  a  bit  of  it ; 
as  they  found  out  when  walking  by  his  garden, 
(they  were  not  obliged  to  pick  their  way  in  front 
of  John  Wilkes's  cottage,  for  he  had  laid  boards 
along  and  made  a  dry  clean  walk,)  they  stopped 
to  chat  with  Mary  Wilkes,  over  the  fence. 

"  Well,  Miss  Wilkes,  what  beautiful  posies  you 

have  got,  to  be  sure :  for  my  part,  I  can't  see 

how  you  've  growed  'em  so  quick.     Jest  look  at 

my  mud-hole,  I  know  I  couldn't  make  such  po- 

_  sies  grow  there,  if  I  tried  all  ray  life." 

"  O  yes,  indeed,  you  could,  Mrs.  Moss,  if  you 
tried  only  one  season.  Wliy,  don't  you  remem- 
ber .what  kind  of  a  place  this  was  last  spring, 
when  we  took  it?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do,  and  how  you  've  done  it  all ; 
and  you  've  five  children,  and  you  take  in  tailor- 
in'.  Well,  things  will  always  grow  for  some 
folks !" 

"  And  things  will  always  grow  for  other  folks, 
Mrs.  Moss.  Now,  just  ask  your  man  to  put  an 
hour's  work  on  your  yard  every  morning,  before 


THE    OLD    SCOTCH    COUPLE. 


21 


it  i3  time  to  go  to  his  work,  as  my  man  does :  and 
then  you  rise  yourself  an  hour  earlier,  and  spend 
that  hour  iti  your  garden,  and  T  will  give  you  all 
the  flower  seeds  you  will  plant,  and  see  what  a 
different  place  youi-s  will  be  next  year." 

"I'll  do  it,  Miss  Wilkes."  And  as  it  was  with  Mrs. 
Moss,  so  it  was  with  all,  or  nearly  all  her  neigh- 
bors. And  as  their  places  improved  year  by  year, 
just  so  they  grew  in  self-respect,  and  real  eleva- 
tion of  character ;  as  they  themselves  expressed 
it,  "  they  felt  more  like  folks."  And  as  the  ex- 
ternal appearance  of  their  little  places  improved, 
so  did  the  interior  of  their  cottages  improve  in 
neatness  and  order ;  and  their  children  look  nicer, 
and  are  taught  to  behave  as  it  becomes  the  chil- 
dren to  behave  who  live  in  ivhite-waKhed  cottages, 
with  Jloioers  before  the  door.  Ah,  Clay  street, 
(it  was  not  named  after  Henry  Clay,  dear  reader, 
but  took  its  name  from  its  own  clay  soil,)  Clay 
street  is  a  different  place  from  what  it  was  when 
I  was  a  child. 

But  I  did  not  sit  down  to  tell  you  about  Mary 
"Wilkes  or  Mrs.  Moss,  though  they  are  both  very 
good  friends  of  mine,  but  to  conduct  you,  if  you 
will  go  with  me,  dear  reader,  to  a  small  and  hum- 
ble dwelling,  standing  beyond  and  apart  from 
the  rest,  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  at  whose  foot  runs 
a  clear  little  stream.  We  will  cross  this  little 
foot-bridge,  enter  the  gate,  and  pass  through  this 
row  of  shrubbery  up  to  the  door  of  the  cottage. 
Part  of  this  cottage  was  occupied  by  an  old 
Scotch  couple,  and  I  have  never  entered  their 
door  that  the  words  of  the  sweet  old  Scotch 
song,  "John  Anderson,  my  Jo  John,"  did  not 
come  to  my  mind.  They  were,  indeed,  going 
hand  in  hand  down  the  hill  of  life,  after  wand- 
ering over  its  thorny  and  rugged  paths  for 
many  weary  years.  But  though  the  way  had 
been  rougli,  and  the  Lord  had  led  them  by  "a 
way  which  they  knew  not,"  yet  these  dear  old 
people,  so  near  the  grave,  loved  to  sing  of  his 
loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy. 

But  let  us  open  the  door,  and  enter  the  cottage. 
How  neat  and  cheerful  it  looks ;  the  clean  and 
nicely  sanded  floor,  the  cheerful  blaze,  the  little 
strip  of  rag-carpet  by  the  side  of  the  fire,  wliere 
the  old  people  always  sit^  the  little  stand,  with 
the  large  old  family  Bible  on  it^  and  lastly,  but 
most  important  of  all,  the  dear  old  people  them- 
selves, always  in  their  places,  side  by  side ;  old 
Janet,  with  her  knitting,  and  her  husband  read- 
ing to  her  from  the  Bible,  or  some  other  good 
book.  They  had  always  belonged  to  the  same 
humble  rank  of  life  in  which  I  found  them,  and 
yet  the  old  gentleman's  cheerful,  hospitable,  court- 
ly welcome,  as  he  rises  and  extends  both  hands 
to  greet  us,  would  grace  a  much  nobler  dwelling. 


There  was  none  of  that  feeling  of  pride  about 
these  people  which  I  so  often  met  with  in  their 
neighbors,  and  which  led  them  to  think  that  I 
considered  it  a  great  condescension  to  visit  them, 
and  a  matter  of  charity  to  leave  them  the  tract. 
There  was  no  resenting  of  any  offers  of  aid,  in 
the  way  of  little  comforts  or  delicacies  in  time  of 
sickness,  with  the  words  I  so  often  heard,  "  You 
may  send  it  round  if  you  choose,  but  I  guess  we 
could  aff"ord  to  get  it  ourselves."  No,  these  dear 
old  people  were  cordial,  kind,  and  frank,  ready 
to  receive  a  favor  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
offered,  and  more  ready  to  offer  kindness,  when 
in  their  power  to  do  so,  than  to  receive  it. 

Many  an  hour  of  pleasant  intercourse  have  I  en- 
joyed with  these  charming  old  people,  and  I  always 
felt  that  "it  was  good  to  be  there."  Thanks  for 
mercies  past  were  ever  on  their  lips,  and  cheerful 
hope  for  the  future  beamed  from  their  wrinkled 
faces.  And  though  their  sailor  son  was  lost  be- 
neath the  wave,  and  their  only  daughter,  their 
darling  Jessie,  had  died  in  the  first  year  of  her 
marriage,  and,  with  her  "  baby  on  her  breast," 
had  been  laid  in  the  cold  ground;  aye,  and 
though  their  oldest  son,  their  hope  and  pride,  and 
he  whom  they  fondly  trusted  would  be  the  stay 
and  support  of  their  old  age,  and  close  tlieir  eyeS 
in  death,  had  disappointed  their  fond  hopes,  and 
thou"'h  living  was  worse  than  dead  to  them,  these 
aged  servants  of  God  would  still  say,  from  their 
hearts,  "The  Lord  is  just  and  right,"  "He  doeth 
all  things  well." 

The  love  of  these  dear  old  people  for  each 
other  was  truly  beautiful  to  see  ;  one  of  them 
was  never  seen  without  the  other;  they  sat  to- 
gether in  the  house,  and  thougli  they  did  not 
often  walk  together  by  the  way,  yet  they  very 
rarely  failed  to  go  to  the  house  of  God  in  compa- 
ny; the  old  man  supporting  his  tottering  footsteps 
with  his  cane,  and  his  old  wife  loaning  on  his 
arm.  I  often  looked  at  them  at  such  times  with 
a  feeling  of  sadness,  thinking  of  the  utter  deso- 
lation of  the  solitary  mourner,  when  "one  should 
be  taken  and  the  other  left." 

And  my  fears  were  soon  realized.  I  was  sit- 
tino'  reading  one  summer  Sunday  afternoon,  tlic 
services  of  the  day  being  over,  when  a  little  girl 
rang  at  the  door,  and  wanted  to  know  if  the 
lady  would  ple:ise  come  down  an<l  see  old  Mrs. 
Angus,  for  they  thought  she  was  dying.  Much 
shocked,  I  hastily  prepared  to  accompany  the 
little  messenger,  questioning  her  on  the  way  as 
to  the  cause  of  the  old  lady's  illness.  All  I  could 
learn  was,  that  she  had  been  taken  ill  in  the 
nifht,  had  been  growing  worse  all  day,  and  the 
doctor,  who  had  just  been  there,  said  that  she 
could  not  live  more  than  an  hour  or  two. 


28 


THE  OLD  SCOTCH  COUPLE. 


As  I  approached  the  house,  I  found,  as  I  had 
expected,  that  it  was  filled  with  people.  Among 
those  of  a  higher  rank,  the  room  of  the  sick  and 
dying  is  a  sacred  place.  A  few  chosen  friends 
are  admitted,  one  by  one,  and  that  as  a  very  great 
favor.  But  among  those  in  the  humbler  ranks  of 
society,  in  villages  like  ours,  it  is  a  matter  o' 
course,  that  where  there  is  extreme  illness,  and 
especially  when  the  hour  of  death  draws  near, 
all  the  friends  and  neighbors,  and  often  those 
who  belong  to  neither  of  these  classes,  throng  to 
the  house,  and  crowd  the  room  of  the  sufferer, 
sometimes  almost  to  suffocation.  Particularly  is 
this  the  case  on  Sunday,  when  these  people  have 
nothing  else  to  do. 

Seeing  the  sitting-room  quite  full,  and  per- 
ceiving that  the  bed-room  where  the  old  lady 
was  lying  was  still  more  so,  I  drew  back  hesi- 
tating about  entering ;  but  one  of  the  women  see- 
me,  came  out  and  said,  "  Oh,  do  go  in  ma'am, 
she  has  been  wishing  so  that  you  would  come." 
As  I  went  in,  I  said  something  aboiit  the  suffo- 
cating atmosphere  of  the  room,  and  asked  whether 
it  would  not  be  better  if  those  of  the  friends  who 
would  be  of  no  use  should  retire ;  but  no  one 
seemed  inelined  to  move. 

The  poor  old  man  sat  by  the  bed  side,  his  hand 
clasped  in  that  of  his  dying  wife,  and  his  head 
leaning  upon  it.  I  missed  his  hospitable  wel- 
come, for  he  did  not  raise  his  head  on  my  ap- 
proach. Grief  had  mastered  every  other  feeling. 
But  the  old  lady  turned  towards  me,  and  such  a 
smile  of  heavenly  peace  beamed  from  her  lovely 
countenance  as  I  had  never  before  seen,  and 
never  since  but  once.  She  pressed  my  hand,  but 
said  nothing  at  first.  Some  of  her  neighbors  and 
friends  sat  around  the  bed,  and  with  a  freedom 
repulsive  to  more  refined  natures,  remarked  upon 
the  approaching  end  of  her  who  was  dying. 
" Another  saint  almost  got  home!"  sighed  one. 
"A  mother  in  Israel  is  falling!"  groaned  another. 
The  old  lady  echoed  the  words,  "  almost  home," 
and  then  turning  towards  the  old  man  she  said, 
in  a  low  and  feeble  voice,  "  Canna  ye  yet  say, 
the  will  o'  the  Lord  be  done,  Andrew?"  "I'm 
tryin'  to,  Janet ;  I'm  tru'm'  to,  dear  old  wife ;  but 
what  sail  I  do  wi'out  ye  ?" 

"  Put  your  trust  in  the  Lord,  Andrew,  and  He 
will  sustain  ye." 

After  lying  silent  for  a  short  time  she  suddenly 
said,  "  Raise  me  up,  friends,  raise  me  up,  and  let 
me  look  upon  the  setting  sun  and  the  green 
earth  for  the  last  time."  The  burying-ground 
on  the  hill  side  was  in  sight  of  her  window.  We 
raised  her  \\\\  and  long  and  earnestly  she  gazed, 
and  then  she  said, — 

"  Raise  your  head,  Andrew ;  raise  your  heaJ, 


old  husband  ;  see  how  the  sun  streams  across  the 
very  spot  where  this  poor  body  will  lie.  You 
can  look  upon  it  from  this  very  window." 
"  I  shall  na'  look  upon  it  long,  Janet." 
"  No,  Andrew,  it  will  na'  be  long  before  we  lie 
side  by  side ;  it  will  na'  be  long  before  we  shall 
meet  in  our  Father's  home.  Dry  your  tears,  then, 
Andrew,  and  fix  the  eye  of  faith  upon  that 
heavenly  home,  where  I  shall  really  be ;  and, 
friends,  I  charge  you  all  to  meet  me  there." 

As  I  was  talking  in  a  low  voice  with  old  Janet, 
and  repeating  in  her  ear  some  precious  promises 
calculated  to  sustain  the  dying  saint,  one  of  her 
Methodist  friends  suddenly  struck  up  a  hymn,  in 
which  several  voices  immediately  joined.  Their 
voices  blended  sweetly ;  and  altogether,  under  the 
circumstances,  the  impression  was  affecting  and 
solemn,  as  they  all  joined  in  the  chorus,  "  Going 
home  to  glory !"  In  the  midst  of  the  singing,  the 
old  lady  fell  into  what  appeared  to  be  a  gentle 
sleep,  and  feeling  that  I  could  be  of  no  further 
use,  I  kissed  her  forehead  and  slipped  quietly  from 
the  house.  At  the  door  I  was  stopped  by  the 
woman  of  the  house,  who  had  her  apron  at  her 
eyes.  "  Oh  dear,  ma'am,"  said  she,  "  to  think 
that  I  shall  never  again  hear  their  dear  old  voices, 
as  they  sang  their  morning  and  evening  hymn, 
when  they  prayed  and  read  the  Bible  together." 

Tiie  next  morning  I  heard  that  old  Janet  had 
never  wakened  from  the  apparent  slumber  into 
which  she  had  fallen  while  I  was  there.  Her  spirit 
had  most  probably  "  gone  home  to  glory,"  even 
while  those  about  her  were  singing  the  words. 

I  did  not  go  to  the  house  of  old  Andrew  again 
till  I  went  to  the  funeral.  Being  early,  I  was 
standing  gazing  upon  the  coffined  form  of  my  old 
friend,  when  I  heard  a  step,  and  looking  round, 
I  found  the  old  man  standing  beside  me.  He 
seemed  unconscious  of  my  presence,  but  stood 
with  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  face  of  his  dead 
wife.  Soon  the  big  drops  began  to  roll  down  his 
cheeks  and  fiiU  on  the  sanded  floor ;  then  he 
leaned  over  her,  and  parting  her  gray  hair  on  her 
forehead,  and  smoothing  it  with  his  hand,  he  said^ 
over  and  over  again,  in  a  tone  of  inexpressible 
tenderness,  "Dear  Janet;  sweet  auld  wife;  dear, 
dear  Janet  I" 

I  saw  the  old  man  again,  his  white  locks  flow- 
ing about  in  the  wind,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
middle  aged  man,  whom  I  had  never  before  seen. 
It  was  the  procUyal  son  returned  to  his  father's 
house,  repentant  and  reformed,  only  to  help  lay 
the  ashes  of  liis  mother  in  the  dust.  He  bad  re- 
turned a  reformed  man,  and  with  the  means  to 
make  his  parents  comfortable :  to  settle  down 
with  them,  and  to  atone  to  them  as  far  as  he  could 
do  Lo  for  the  years  of  gi'ief  he  had  caused  them. 


*-^fe./^ 


THE   OUTLET    OF    LAKE    GEORGE;. 


SEE    PLATE. 


The  artist's  choice  is  admirable !  Could  any 
man,  however  deeply  his  soul  might  be  imbued 
■with  taste  and  love  for  the  poetry  of  nature, 
make  a  better  selection  from  among  all  the  lovely 
spots  the  beautiful  earth  affords?  Let  him 
take  the  romantic  purlieus  of  Switzerland — let 
him  sail  over  the  Loire,  (as  superb  a  stream  as 
any  in  the  world  excepting  our  own  Hudson,) — 
let  him  journey  over  both  Hemispheres,  and  he 
will  not  find  a  spot  better  calcidated  to  make  a 
picture.  It  is  romance  itself — the  very  essence  of 
natural  beauty — the  concentration  of  the  creed 
and  liturgy  of  natm-e's  God.  Any  one,  with  a 
soul  above  the  merely-mechanical  attributes  of 
social  life,  could  become  cither  a  poet  or  a  painter 
by  residing  upon  such  a  spot  as  this.  If  not, 
there  is  no  inspiration  in  landscape. 

Lake  George  lies  a  little  south  and  west  of  Lake 
Champlain,  its  outlet  being  about  four  miles  from 
the  head  of  its  larger  companion.  It  was  dis- 
covered in  July,  1669,  (nearly  two  centuries  ago,) 
by  Samuel  D.  Champlain,  about  eleven  years  be- 
fore the  sturdy  and  conscience-strengthened  Puri- 
tans placed  their  toil-worn  feet  from  the  May- 
flower upon  the  rock  at  Plymouth.  The  discover- 
er named  it  Lake  St.  Sacrament  or  Holy  Lake, 
because  of  the  purity  of  its  waters  and  the  appa- 
rently mysterious  character  of  its  origin.  It  has 
no  inlets,  its  sources  being  entirely  «7s  own  springs. 
It  is  famous  for  having  been  the  scene  of  the  first 
battle  ever  fouglit  upon  this  continent  with  the 
aid  of  gunpowder.  This  was  fought  (exactly 
where  our  plate  was  drawn)  by  Mr.  Champlain, 
the  discoverer,  against  the  Indians,  on  the  29th 
of  July,  in  the  year  1669.  In  this  battle  he 
killed,  with  his  own  blunderbuss,  three  Iroquois 
chiefs.  The  contest  was  disputed  by  whites,  im- 
der  the  command  of  Champlain,  and  by  the  Al- 
gonquin tribe  of  red  men,  led  and  directed  by 
the  Iroquois. 

Lake  George  is,  or  ought  to  be,  noted  for  being 
the  spot  in  the  immeliate  vicinity  of  which  Abcr- 
crombie  fought  his  memorable  battle  against  the 
French  in  1758 — pursuing  the  fight  from  the  mar- 
gin of  the  outlet  to  Fort  Ticondcroga,  where  the 


outlet  enters  Lake  Champlain.  Abercrombie,  as 
is  well  known  to  the  student  of  domestic  history^ 
attacked  the  fort,  and  did  not  rclire  from  pursu- 
ing his  assaults  thereupon  until  compelled  by  the 
loss  of  twenty  hundred  men. 

At  its  head  is,  at  the  present  time,  the  town  of 
Caldwell,  where  is  situated  "  The  Lake  House,'' 
the  most  superior  hotel  situated  at  the  most  fash- 
ionable and  most  delicious  watering  place  in  the 
United  States.  The  "  Lake  House"  is  kept  by 
Hon.  J.  F.  Sherrill ;  it  was  of  late  enlarged  and 
improved  to  meet  the  increasing  visitations  of 
the  public,  and  is  now  a  summer  resort  that  has 
no  equal  in  this  country.  It  commands  a  splen- 
did view  of  the  point  where  x\.bercrombie  em- 
barked 16,000  men,  (July  4,  1*758,) — of  French 
Mountain,  and  of  the  relics  of  Fort  William  Hen- 
ry and  Fort  George. 

It  will  be  recollected  that  the  first-mentioned 
of  these  forts  is  endowed  witli  a  melancholy  in- 
terest, as  having  formed  the  scene  of  the  never- 
forgotten  surrender  and  shocking  butchery  of 
the  English  by  the  French  and  Indians  under  the 
infamous  General  Montcalm,  in  1717 — an  event 
vividly  and  ably  commemorated  in  Cooper's  "Last 
of  the  Mohicans." 

These  are  not  the  only  thrilling  associations, 
either  of  the  past  or  the  j)rescnt  time,  belonging 
to  this  place.  To  learn  and  enjoy  them  the  rea- 
der must  visit  Lake  George  ;  and  if  he  does  not 
pronounce  it  one  of  the  sublimest  spots  upon  the 
globe's  surface,  and  commend  us  for  our  taste  in 
selecting  it  for  the  subject  of  our  illustralion,  we 
will  frankly  confess  that  cither  he  or  ourself  is — 
egregiously  mistaken. 

Of  Lake  George  we  can  properly  say,  supposing 
that  to  be  nature  in  its  most  attractive  form. 

>^To  him  who  in  tlie  love  of  nalnre  holds 

romninnion  with  her  visihie  forin?,  she  speaks 
A  v.irious  lan;;ii:)!;c  :  for  hi^  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voioe  of  glailne^?,  ami  a  smile 
And  elnijiience  of  heanty,  and  fhe  slidfS 
Into  his  darker  nnusin?<i,  willi  a  mild 
Anil  healing  sym|iathy,  thatsteals  away 
Their  «har|>ne«s  ere  he  is  aware." — Bryant. 


PKOFESSOR   SAMUEL   F.   B.   MORSE. 


INVENTOR  OF  THE  TELEGRAPH  — WITH  A  PORTRAIT. 


Morse'3  M.ognetic  Telegraph  far  outstrips  rail- 
roads, steamboats,  and  all  those  other  modern  in- 
ventions and  improvements  which  are  so  rapidly 
and  effectually  revolutionizing  business,  society, 
and  the  entire  order  of  the  things  that  were.  Its 
advantages  to  business  men  are  incalculable.  A 
Baltimore  or  Buffalo  merchant,  or  any  large 
operator,  has  an  application  for  $10,000  worth 
of  goods,  which  he  has  on  hand,  excepting  one 
quality  or  variety  of  one  kind,  the  want  of  which 
Avill  prevent  the  sale.  At  four  o'clock  he  des- 
patches a  telegraphic  order  to  New  York  for  the 
wanted  items,  and  in  an  hour  they  are  on  their 

-n-ay of  which  he  is  informed  in  fifteen  minutes 

and  they  are  in  Baltimore  the  next  morning; 

whereas  it  would  have  taken  three  or  four  days 
to  have  obtained  them  by  letter,  which  is  longer 
than  his  customer  can  wait.  Nor  can  he  know 
whether  the  New  York  merchant  can  or  has  sup- 
plied him  till  return  of  mail,  perhaps  ten  times 
as  many  hours  as  it  is  minutes  by  telegraph.  It 
will  probably  completely  revolutionize  existing 
modes  of  doing  business;  for  when  telegraphic 
lines  become  extended,  and  its  transmitting  pow- 
ers vastly  improved,  as  they  doubtless  will  be, 
Western,  Southern,  Northern— all  business  men, 
instead  of  leaving  their  business  and  going  to  dis- 
tant cities,  will  order  by  telegraph  what,  and  as, 
they  want. 

Or  a  person  dies,  some  of  whose  very  near 
friends  live  at  a  distance.  A  letter  will  not 
reach  them  in  season  for  them  to  arrive  before 
dect)n4)03ition  compels  the  burial,  and  even  then 
it  may  lay  in  the  post-office  for  days,  whereas  the 
teleo-raph  will  enable  those  many  hundi-eds  of 
miles  off  to  be  present;  and  thus  of  innumerable 
cases  like  these.  Its  prospective  advantages,  and 
the  number  of  useful  ends  wliich  it  will  yet  be 
made  to  subserve,  exceed  all  computation. 

But  it  is  in  the  world  of  mind  proper  that  it 
is  destined  to  effect  by  far  the  greatest  revolution, 
arid  achieve  its  highest  good  :  coupled  with  pho- 
nography, it  will  place  any  important  speech, 
delivered  in  any  part  of  our  vast  nation,  in 
tlie  hands  of  the  entire  country  while  it 
is  being  delivered.     Thn^  phonogi-aphy  now  re. 


ports  a  speech  verbatim,  and,  by  having  several 
sets  of  wires — especially  after  the  telegraph  has 
been  still  furtlier  improved* — it  can  be  trans- 
mitted in  takes,  as  the  printers  parcel  off  matter 
wanted  immediately,  and  sent  throughout  the 
land,  there  to  be  set  up,  and  the  first  part  prin- 
ted and  circulated  before  the  last  part  is  delivered ! 
As,  when  Fulton  first  navigated  the  Hudson  by 
steam,  none  conceived  it  possible  that  this  new 
motive  power,  great  as  it  was  considered,  could 
ever  be  made  to  accomplish  a  thousandth  part  of 
what  it  has  already  done — and  it  is  yet  in  its 
merest  infancy — so  we  can  form  no  conception 
of  the  wonders  the  telegraph  is  destined,  in  the 
lapse  of  ages,  to  accomplish.  See  what  it  has  al- 
ready done  in  connection  with  the  press.  See 
how  many  new  papers  it  has  given  birth  to  all 
along  its  lines,  every  one  of  which  go  forth  to 
rouse  and  develop  mind.  In  short,  it  has  liter- 
ally electrified  the  civilized  world.  And  if  it 
achieves  all  tliis  in  the  green  tree,  what  will  it 
do  in  tlie  dry  ?     Time  alone  can  answer. 

The  claim  of  Prof.  Morse  to  the  real  original 
invention  of  the  magnetic  Telegraph  has  been 
disputed,  but  never  disproved.  But  whether  the 
abstract  conception  of  the  idea  is  first  due  to 
him  or  not,  it  is  evident  that  the  practical  reali- 
zation of  it  in  the  form  which  now  so  wonderful- 
ly subserves  the  convenience  and  interest  of  men, 
is  tlie  result  of  liis  genius  and  perseverance.  His 
machine  was  the  fii'st  one  used  in  this  country, 
and  beyond  all  question,  it  was  due  to  his  energy 
that  the  experimental  lines  were  erected,  whose 
sticcess  led  to  the  adoption  of  all  others.  Prof. 
Morse  is  distinguished  not  only  for  his  inventive 
skill,  but  for  many  other  traits  of  genius,  eitherof 
which  alone  would  make  him  distinguished.  An 
artist  of  high  powers  and  attainments,  his  repu- 
tation is  scarcely  second  to  that  of  any  American. 
He,  is  also,  a  scholar,  a  gentleman,  and  a  Christian, 
adorning  the  reputation  of  his  genius  by  many  of 
the  most  agreeable  and  useful  characteristics  of 
private  life. 


*  One  of  its  recent  improvements  uses  letters,  as  in  prin- 
ting, and  otiiers  will  be  aiUed  s^  time  rolls  on. 


PROF.    SAMUEL    F.   B.   MORSE, 
Inventor  of  the  Magnetic  Telagraph. 


Cniiu  \)tn,  nunc  Ijrre  niiii  huiclL 


SONG  OF  WOOD   NYMPHS. 


POETRY  BV  BARRY  CORNWALL. 
Allegretto  Q,ua8l  Andaute. 


MUSIC   BY  O.  H.  CURTIS. 


-± 


i>F 


•»     *• 


Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell  In 


8  •     I       0  0  0     0^0  0  000  00ir    0  #  5ri_i.i.  0  0  0 


-n 


SS^f 


forests     deep  !    Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell.  Why  dost  thou  weep  1 

ten. 


Is  it       for  love  (sweet  pain  !) 


"<•"   •        000    •< 


poco    cres. 


-f-^^^rfif^0-^^r-^i=s=i^'^ 

' iTt~!~l  I ■"  "  '  ' — -— — — -^ — ^     •     0-0-0  0-^ 


'^. 


.— ,'*-,! 


Piu  Sloderatoi 


1^" 


=?=S=^-tEz2^zt,J^:fzf 


Ir^^p: 


Tempo  priino. 


f  f 


T    r 


^ 


,  www^ 

That  thus  thou  dar'st  complain  Amongst  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer 


-0~0-0'~g-  00-004  \ 


leaves, 


ZEZEZIXZir 


-!q_. 


^r^^- 


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mf 


Where     naught  else  grieves! 


b=F^^3§5=^=^ 


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Tit: 


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-^— ■--■— :^— 1± 


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rf^f^^EEi 


Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie  By  whisp'ring  stream  ! 


fc5z_- 


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Rit«      Espres.    Tcin.  Into.  Greg. 


-±±±it:^ 


'^^^ 


Here  no  one  dares  to  die  For    love's  sweet  dream  ;  But  health  all  seek  and  joy.  And  shun  perverse  annoy, 

,  ^g"- .  ; .    ^— <    frn'  _     ni    .^^    IT 

ij_b |— '—     '— '— '     '----  T^  "1     '^  r  1=^^—1—,—,— 1—1— i-i      I     I     I  J  _-J-ddi3- 


m 


q=qqqqzn^z:]zn: 


~0-0^0  —  (0^—  000   000  ";iSl2-#-«r-#-(ir-«r-i 

?n/j  n7e«.  tempo  \mn.     cres. 


tTL  {£11— ;**z5*5zifz*-*-*-*-*^-*-*-]-*"* '- 

»-4  Ti 0»0  gy  I — : — ' — — — ' — \ r— H — — - 

\  ^nmmA     LmiJ     u^  LJ^ 


COME  HERE,  COME  HERE  AND  DWELL. 


§=tb^ 


Piu  BIozzo. 


Tempo  lino. 


ife^^^S^SMi^ 


And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day,  And 


mf 


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ja. 


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Or  else,  thro'  half  the  year.  On  rushy    floor, 

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■        "    I    !    ■     ■    " 


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pp  tempo  prima. 


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We  lie  by  wa-ters  clear,  Wliile  sky-larks  pour 

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decres. 


Their    songs 


in  -  to        the    sun  ! 


^A(       lA       <n  1  1  1       ^Ai       >4i       .^  ~**f       2E       ^M       ifV      >fl(       ^hi       iM       .<«       j*k  "  .lAi       .en       -lb       *■■*       ^iid       «(._i~  I  I  I  j'm       i"»       rh —  — .  n  -  .~~;;»';fu*. 


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ores.  f 


c>  &  «  y  i^i^z^  e  &  &  &&*  *s^ 
r/ecres. 


Pill  Moderaito. 


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And  when  bright  day  is  done,  And  when  brisht  rlay  is  (!one,We'll  hide  'neath  bells  of  flowers  ornodding  corn.  And 


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Tempo  PriiHO. 


nTHT'CU" 


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SE?. 


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p  dream 


till  mom ! 
Zt    _i_    _e(t_ 

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Pr 


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T~r 


~i,  [■"   *    IT 


A   FUNERAL    IN    THE    COUNTRY. 


BY       REV. 


J  . 


BLAKE, 


D  ,  D. 


The  extinctioQ  of  human  life  causes  a  kind  of 
paralysis  in  all  within  a  sphere  to  be  affected  by 
it ;  and  a  funeral,  especially   in  the  country,  is 
more  powerful  in  calling  forth  human  sympathy 
than  any  other  event.  This  is  natural ;  we  might 
expect  it ;  and  it  is  confirmed  by  experience  and 
observation.     How   could  it  be  otherwise  !      For 
the  strong  love  of  life  with  which  man  is  endow- 
ed ;  the  tender   affection   that  binds  him  to  his 
kindred,  and  to  objects  around  him  ;  the  agency 
that  he  may  have  had  in  the  business  of  society  ; 
and,  especially,  the  changes  in  his  own  family,  in 
the  body  politic,  and  in  the  sphere  of  the  produc- 
tive elements   of  the  community,  render  his  de- 
mise, particularly  if  he  has  been  distinguished  in 
his  generation,  an  occurrence   of  overpowering 
influence.     For  a  season,  at  least,  there  will  be  a 
general  and  a  solemn  pause,  both  in  labor  and 
pleasure ;  for  a   season,  at  least,   the  deep  foun- 
tains of  the  soul  will  be  completely  broken  up  ; 
and  for  a  season,   the   machineiy,    mental  and 
physical,  of  which  he  was  a  part,  seems  to  stop 
its  revolutions,  if  not  to  roll  its  ponderous  wheels 
backward.  This  is  a  component  of  the  philosophy 
into  which  everything  spiritual,or  physical,  of  the 
great  kingdoms  of  the  world,  is  resolved.     It  is 
not  strange,  therefore,  that  from  the  time  of  the 
first  recorded  annals  of  human  mortality,  funeral 
solemnities  should  liave  been  characterized  by  de- 
monstrations of  individual  and  public  grief.     A 
full  liistory  of  such  solemnities  would  form  a  de- 
partment in  our  literature  of  the  most  absorbing 
interest. 

"With  funeral  solemnities  in  our  own  families 
we  are  all  familiar.  And  wlio  has  not  witness- 
ed them,  surrounded  by  conventional  pomp  and 
magnificence,  in  the  high  places  of  our  own  be- 
loved realm  ?  Who  has  not  read  of  them  in  other 
realms — in  ancient  as  well  as  in  modern  times  ? 
The  noble  obsequies  of  llarcellus  by  a  patriotic 
people,  have  been  a  theme,  in  all  succeeding  ages, 
of  admiration  and  eulogy.  But  even  these  do  not 
compare  with  those  of  the  venerable  founder  of 
the  Jewi-^h  nation,  the  splendor  of  which  is  with- 
out a  parallel  in  history.    His  remains  were  fol- 


'  lowed  to  the  place  of  their  interment,  nearly  two 
hundred  miles  in  a  distant  country,  not  only  by 
his  son  Joseph  and  his  brethren  and  all  his  father's 
household,  but  by  all  the  servants  of  Pharoah  ; 
the  elders  of  his  house  and  all  the  elders  of 
Egypt  conducting  the  most  solemn  lamentations, 
being  an  itinerant  national  multitude,  resembling 
in  its  progress  a  mighty  river  or  flood.  If  to  this 
any  counterpart  can  be  found,  it  is  in  those  na- 
tional demonstrations  of  honor  and  homage  which 
have  been  shown  to  some  of  the  venerated  fathers 
of  our  own  republic,  when  their  remains  have 
been  followed  from  city  to  city,  and  state  to  state, 
by  the  most  illustrious  of  their  compeers  and  by 
crowds  of  deeply-stricken  citizen?.  And  what 
pomp  and  splendor  were  exhibited  when  the  re- 
mains of  a  renowned  Gallic  chieftain  were 
brought  from  the  sea  girt  isle,  where  for  years 
they  had  slumbered,  to  be  deposited  in  the  land 
he  once  called  his  own  ! 

And  in  less  imposing  exhibitions  of  the  kind, 
there  has  often  been  witnessed  a  solemnity  and 
a  moral  sublimity  found  under  no  other  circum- 
stances. That  heart  must  indeed  be  hard  as 
marble,  and  those  affections  cold  as  polar  ice, 
which  receive  no  impression  and  evince  no  emo- 
tion, when,  amidst  the  darknessof  night  and  the 
liowlings  of  the  ocean,  the  culd  and  lifeless  body  of 
the  mariner,  or  of  the  female  hectic  on  a  voyage 
for  health,  is,  in  the  language  of  the  Church 
Burial  Service,  committed  to  the  deep.  Not  less 
impressive  is  the  burial,  by  torch  light,  of  the 
slain  of  an  army  under  a  flag  of  truce  or  voluntary 
suspension  of  dire  conflict:  the  dealh-hke  silence 
being  interrupted  only  by  the  clear  vcicc  of  the 
chaplain,  the  funeral  dirge  of  tlie  band,  or  the 


well-timed  minute  discharge  of  tlie  can:ion. 


That 


of  the  British  General  Fraser,  as  described  by 
Madame  Riedesel,  prior  to  tlie  surrender  of  Bur- 
goyne,  is  full  of  thrilling  inttrest. 

Our  present  purpose,  however,  is  to  depict  the 
mute  eloquence  of  funeral  solemnities  in  rural 
life,  where  there  is  no  pomp — no  extraneous  cir- 
cumstances to  impress  the  mind.  The  first  funeral 
■we  ever  attended,  was  when  at  the  age  of  eight 


84 


A    FUNERAL    IN    THE    COUNTRY, 


years;  ainl  the  whole  scene  and  the  impressions 
we  received,  are  as  fresh  and  vivid,  as  though  it 
■were  yesterday,  though  more  than  half  a  century 
since.  It  was  of  a  lady  a  little  past  the  me- 
ridian of  life,  and  belonging  to  the  best  class  of 
society  in  a  new  country  with  a  sparse  popula- 
tion. Our  own  home  was  three  miles  distant  ; 
but  that  was  no  obstacle  to  a  pedestrian  atten- 
dance. Seemingly,  the  members  of  every  family 
in  the  town,  young  and  old,  male  and  female, 
were  there.  It  was  in  the  busy  season  of  May, 
but  the  farmers  had  all  left  their  work.  All 
joined  to  mingle  their  sympathies  with  those  of 
the  afflicted,  and  to  share  in  the  moral  instruction 
furnished  by  the  event.  Such  was  the  respect 
then  paid  in  a  new  settlement  to  a  deceased  fel- 
low mortal,  although  to  most  present  she  had 
been  personally  but  little  known  ;  and  such  was 
the  readiness  of  all  to  receive  the  instruction  fur- 
nished in  a  scene  there  so  unusual.  Such  an 
awakened  sensibility  to  the  grief  of  others,  and 
to  the  admonitions  of  religion  to  be  themselves 
also  ready,  presents  a  feature  in  society,  if  old 
fashioned,  truly  lovely.  It  gives  character  to 
those  who  possess  it,  infinitely  better  than  all  the 
affected  indifference  and  levity  in  relation  to  such 
subjects,  now-a-days  of  no  rare  occurrence.  Now, 
with  one  sex,  it  is  too  often  looked  upon  as  un- 
manly at  least,  to  give  such  heed  to  these  ad- 
monitions of  Providence ,  and,  even  in  the  other 
sex,  it  too  often  appears  that  there  is  more  regard 
to  the  popular  conventional  exhibitions  of  what 
is  practiced  in  fashionable  life,  than  to  the  indul" 
gence  of  genuine  grief,  or  the  religious  culture  of 
their  own  hearts. 

The  population  of  the  whole  town,  as  it  were 
we  have  already  remarked,  was  there  ;  not  only 
filling  the  entire  house,  Avhich  was  large,  but 
more  were  collected  about  the  house,  than  were 
in  it.  The  lower  parts  of  the  windows  were  all 
blocked  up  by  human  forms — so  were  the  door- 
ways and  the  avenues  to  them.  A  profound 
silence  pervaded  the  whole  mass.  Not  a  whisper 
was  heard.  Every  look  was  downcast,  and  the 
pulsations  of  every  bosom  denoted  sorrow.  The 
funeral  services  consisted  of  prayers,  a  sermon, 
and  singing  Dr.  Watt's  hymn — "  Hark  from  the 
tomb,  a  doleful  sound  !"  producing  in  us  a  thrill- 
ing awe  that  will  never  be  forgotten,  and  from 
the  appearance  of  the  crowd  each  one  felt  himself 
a  brother  or  of  kindred  consanguinity. 

To  this  succeeded  the  removal  of  the  corpse,  on 
the  shoulders  of  the  pall-bearers,  to  the  grave, 
some  distance  off,  in  a  corner  of  the  orchard.  First 
followed  the  afflicted  husband,  a  portly,  gentle- 
manly-looking farmer,  pensive  and  sad,  but  with- 


out visible  emotion — probably  the  more  oppress- 
ed, because  his  sorrow  had  no  vent  in  tears.  Next 
to  hira,  in  the  train,  were  the  two  oldest  children, 
a  son  and  a  daughter,  advanced  nearly  to  adult 
stature  ;  then  a  still  younger  sister,  leading  by 
the  hand,  a  little  brother  of  our  own  age — say 
eight  years.  The  more  distant  relatives  and  the 
attendants  upon  the  occasion  voluntarily  joined 
in  a  dense  and  long  procession.  With  what  sad- 
ness it  moved  forward  !  So  absorbed  were  all  in 
deep  thought,  that  nature  seemed  as  if  hushed 
to  unwonted  stillness  and  responsive  emotion  ; 
and  it  required  little  effort  of  the  imagination  to 
see  the  heavens  spreading  over  the  whole  group 
a  mantle  befitting  the  occasion.  It  was  a  clear 
bright  day  with  spring's  genial  influences,  so  that 
within  and  without  all  was  harmony. 

At  length  the  grave  was  reached,  and  the  cofiin 
was  lowered  into  it  !  To  us,  the  scene  being  an 
entirely  new  one,  as  well  as  to  the  stricken 
family,  this  was  seemingly  more  than  could  be 
sustained.  The  little  fellow  named  sobbed  aloud, 
trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  apparently,  had 
it  not  been  for  his  sister,  who  held  him  by  the 
hand,  would  have  fallen  or  leaped  into  the  grave 
upon  his  pulseless  mother  !  VVe  wept  too,  and 
almost  lost  the  locomotive  power  to  withdraw 
from  the  spot  and  return  to  our  own  home.  Such 
was  the  impression  on  us  that  we  ever  afterwards 
cherished  for  this  boy  a  warm  affection.  The 
affection  became  reciprocal,  and  then  led  to 
personal  friendship  and  great  intimacy  that  con- 
tinued fifty-two  or  fifty-three  years,  when  he  fol- 
lowed his  mother  to  the  bourne  whence  no  one 
returns.  Were  we  near  his  final  resting  place, 
we  should  not  fail  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  it, 
both  to  indulge  in  those  natural  impulses  which 
bind  kindred  hearts  in  one  bond  of  affectionate 
union,  and  to  revive  and  invigorate  those  moral 
impressions  received  by  us  on  the  occasion  des- 
cribed. This  narrative  of  the  incident  here  given 
has  no  connection  with  our  main  design.  It  is 
given  simply  to  corroborate  by  our  own  expe- 
rience the  influence  of  a  funeral  in  the  country. 
We  believe  that  incident  did  materially  and  per- 
manently change  the  tone  of  our  social  charac- 
ter. 

Our  intended  memoir  is  yet  to  be  rehearsed. 
The  prominent  facts  are  not  unlike  those  in  hun- 
dreds of  country  funerals,  denotir>g  the  respect 
that  is  manifested  in  a  rural  population  for  the 
memory  of  a  deceased  member  of  it,  as  well  as 
friendship  for  surviving  relatives.  Among  all 
the  endearing  amiabilities  of  which  we  are  capa- 
ble, we  know  of  no  one  besides  so  precious.  The 
idea  of  seeing  a  whole  community  make  a  delib 


A  FUNERAL  IN  THE    COUNTRY. 


60 


erate  pause  when  one  of  their  number  becomes 
sick  or  dies — or  suspend  their  own  labors  or  plea- 
sures in  order  to  administer  to  the  needy  or  af- 
flicted, shows  that  our  common  brotherhood  is 
duly  recognized  by  them ;  and  that  there  is,  in 
man,  a  spirit  of  conimuuion  and  fellowship,  as 
if  we  were  all  the  children  of  the  same  heavenly 
Father.  Even  the  tolling  of  the  church  bells,  at 
a  country  funeral,  makes  an  impression  on  a  pass- 
ing traveler,  or  the  people  generally,  of  more 
deep  seriousness  than  an  ordinary  dissertation  or 
sermon  on  human  mortality. 

Sometime  about  the  middle  of  October,  1839, 
■we  had  occasion  to  make  a  journey  through  one 
of  the    best  agricultural  districts  in  New  Eng- 
land, and  to  stop  a  few  days  at  a  place,  for  con- 
venience, we  shall  call  Beemantown.      "We  ar- 
rived at  the  neat  village  hoteljust  as  the  harvest 
moon  was  presenting  to  view  her  full-orbed  disc, 
in  its  wonted  beauty  at  that  season  of  the  year. 
The  surrounding  country   denoted  a   tinift  and 
good  taste  that  usually  attend  well  educated  la- 
bor applied  to  agriculture.     In  the  village  were 
several  stores,  a  Gothic  church,  a  capacious  aca- 
demical edifice,   and  sundry  mechanical  estab- 
lishments; all  was  neatness  and  simplicity;  and 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  or  heard  indicating  idle- 
ness, poverty,  or   a   lack  of  good  morals.     The 
loveliness  of  an  evening  during  the  season  of  the 
harvest  moon,  especially  in  rural  situations,  is  too 
well  known  to  require  description,  for  it  has  long 
been  the  subject  of  poetic  delineation  and  eulogy. 
After  supper,  we  took  a  short  walk,  to  witness 
the  good  order  and  tranquillity  with  which  we 
were  then  surrounded  ;  and  never  had  we  before 
experienced  from  a   serene  sky,  a  mellowed  at- 
mosphere,  and   an   unbroken  quietude,   such  a 
mental  charm — delightfully  in  contrast  with  the 
emotions  arising  from  the  bustle  and  excitement 
of  the  city.     We  felt  as  one  might  be  supposed 
to  have  felt  in  Paradise,  or  in  a  land  of  undefiled 
spiritual  existences.  Of  course  we  returned  to  our 
lodging-place  well  prepared  for  sleep.  Soon  were 
■we  lost  in  gentle  slumbers.    Never  to  us  was 
sleep  more  sweet.    The  little  fatigue  of  the  day's 
journey  and  the  indescribable  effect  of  metereo- 
logical  and  local  influences,  caused  our  slumbers 
to  be  like   those  of  a  healthful  infant,  without 
sighing  or  convulsive  throbs  or    any  change  of 
features. 

Thus  we  probably  slept  two  hours.  Then  the 
loud  striking  of  the  village  clock  announced  the 
Lour  of  midnight,  and  we  awoke  to  behold  the 
silvery  light  of  the  moon  rendering  every  object 
about  us  as  distinct  as  if  in  the  light  of  day. 
When  nature  is  thus  wrapped  in  silence,  one  sud- 
denly aroused  in  this  manner  from  his  slumbers 


imagines  himself  a  un't  in  the  broad  expanse  ; 
yet  his  solitude  causes  no  shrinking  from  exist- 
ence— no  terror  from  imagined  danger ;  but  his 
breath,  like  fragrant  and  gently  undulating  in- 
cense, rises  to  the  great  Spirit  that  shelters  and 
upholds  him.    When  in  a  kind  of  waking  revc ry, 
the  death-toned  sound  of  the  village  church  bell 
was  heard,  it  fell  upon  us,  as  might  be  supposed, 
like  the  voice  of  the  archangel,  when  announcing 
the  end  of  time,  will  fall  upon  the  living  world ; 
and  before  its  waning  cadence  was  entirely  gone, 
or  its  echo  from  the  distant  hills  came  back  to  us, 
a  second  one,  if  possible  still  more  impressively, 
fell  upon  us ; — then  a  third,  and  a  fourth,  till  we 
counted  fifty-two,  at  intervals  of  about  twenty 
seconds  between  each  ; — then  a  pause  of  a  few 
minutes,  wliich  was  succeeded  by  still   another 
one,  if  possible  yet  louder  than  those  befo  e, — 
when  all  again  was  dead  silence;  andwti  seemed, 
as  it  were,  lost  and  alone,  although,  it  might  be, 
hundreds  in  the  village  felt  as  we  did. 

Had  we  not  known  the  usage  of  former  limes 
in  the  country,  thus  to  toll  the  church  bell,  com- 
mencing as  near  as  possible  upon  the  last  breath 
whenever  one  dies — the  number  of  strokes  being 
the  number  of  years  in  the  age  of  the  deceased 
afterwards  a  single  stroke,  as  in  this  case,  signi- 
fying a  male,  and  if  two  strokes,  a  female — the 
above,  to  us,  would  have  been  a  mystery  ;  but 
knowing  it,  we  were  apprized  that  a  fellow  mor- 
tal, a  brother,  of  the  age  of  fifty-two  years,  had 
at  tliis  still  hour  of  midnight  ceased  to  exist — 
bidding  a  last  adieu  to  the  pains  and  sorrows 
and  disappointments,  as  well  as  to  friends  and 
relatives  and  the  once-budding  hopes  and  joys  in 
life's  panorama.      The  reader  need  not  be   told 
that  our  thoughts  became  pensive  and  sad,  and 
for  the  remainder  of  the  night  we  knew  not  sleep. 
Had  it  not  been  so,  we  might  rightly  have  been 
judged  void  of  those  amiable  sensibilities  which 
belong  to  our  nature.     Far  be  it  from  us  to  be 
ashamed  of  them.     If  the  result  of  weakness  we 
rejoice  in  it.      And  it  is  a  matter  of  course,  that 
on  the  return  of  morning  we  inquiied  for  whom 
had  been  made  these  demonstrations  of  reverence 
and  respect.     The  following  narrative  is  the  re- 
ply to  our  inquiry  : — 

In  the  year  1802,  a  youth,  whose  name  we  shall 
call  Charles  Beeman,  left  the  homestead  of  his  fa- 
ther, and  took  a  clerkship  in  the  city  of  New  York. 
The  father  was  of  the  tiiird  generation  who  had 
tenanted  the  same  mansion  and  cultivated  the 
same  farm,  thus  rendered  dear  to  the  family  by 
a  thousand  cherished  associations.  The  house 
was  indeed  ancient,  but  from  its  age,  its  stateli- 
ness,  and  the  lofty  elms  in  front  of  it,  was  truly 


36 


A  FUNERAL  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


venerable.  The  farm,  too,  was  large  and  pro- 
ductive ;  and  the  income  of  it,  under  a  prudent 
expenditure,  had  placed  the  propiietor  in  digni- 
fied independence  and  comfort.  The  family  con- 
sisted of  the  parents  and  three  children — two  sons 
and  a  daughter.  Cliarles  was  the  eldest  of  the 
three,  and  unfortunately  had  imbibed  the  idea 
that  the  mercantile  life  was  less  severely  taxed 
with  toil,  was  more  respectable,  and,  what  was 
more  in  his  imagination,  was  the  only  way  to 
affluence.  Accordingly  he  resolved  to  forsake  the 
residence  of  his  ancestors,  and  to  seek  fortune  in 
the  city.  The  resolution  might  have  denoted 
what  is  usually  looked  upon  as  superior  talents 
and  enterprize ;  but  the  sequel  will  show  that 
the  determination  of  the  younger  brother,  who  re- 
mained with  his  parents,  was  attended  with  far 
better  results. 

The  memoir  of  Charles  Beeman,  with  non-es- 
sential variations,  is  that  of  thousands  of  young 
men,  who,  under  similar  circumstances,  leave  the 
countiy  and  repair  to  the  city.     From  his  career 
thousands  may  learn  wisdom.     He  thought  agri- 
culture a  dull  and  irksome  occupation,  and  that 
it  was  beneath  the  dignity  of  one  of  his  imagined 
talents    to  spend  his  life  in  laying  up  thirty  or 
forty  thousand  dollars,  as  his  father  had  done, 
when  he  might  become  a  merchant,  and  obtain 
five  times  that  amount.     He  looked  at  the  rich 
apparel   and    furniture   and    equipage  of  mer- 
chants,  and  at  the  display  of  merchandize  and 
cash  and  stocks  in  the  city ;  and  was  completely 
bewildered  with  the  fascinating  picture.  Of  course, 
away  he  went,  spent  six  years  as  a  clerk  in  one 
of  the  most  respectable  houses  in  that  commer- 
cial  emporium.     The   daughter  of  Squire   Bee- 
man,  as  the  father  of  Charles  was  generally  de- 
nominated, soon  married  a  young  man  of  j^roper- 
ty,  talents   and  character,  and  lives  only  a  few 
miles   distant;  and   Jame?,  the  other  son,  with 
less  brilliancy  but  more  soundness  than  liis  bro- 
ther, remained  on  the  homestead,   married,  and 
became  one  of  the  most  respectable  farmers  of 
his  state.     He  also  was  several  times  elected  to 
the  Senate  of  his  state;  and  might  have  been 
sent  to   Congress,   but  preferred   remaining   at 
home.     He  and  his  father  so  labored  and  man- 
aged that,  when  Charles  was  ready  to  engage  in 
business  on  his  own  account,  he  received,  as  his 
portion  of  the  paternal  estate,  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars.    At  length  the  parents  of  James  died,  and 
he,  of  the  fourth  generation,  with  a  family  of  chil- 
dren of  which  a  prince  might  be  proud,  was  left 
n  sole  possession  of  the  Beeman  homestead.    As 
might  be   inferred,  he  was   as   independent  as 
though  he  had  possessed  a  million  of  dollars  ;  and 
it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything  not 


within  his  reach  that  would  have  added  to  bis 
enjoyment  or  his  reputation. 

Charles  Beeman  commenced  his  career  as  a 
merchant  under  the  most  favorable  auspices.  His 
character  was  pure,  his  talents  were  quite  re- 
spectable, and  he  had  a  cash  capital  of  ten  thou- 
sand dollars,  witli  unlimited  facilities  from  his 
mercantile  acquaintance.  For  twenty  years  his 
course  was  most  prosperous.  Everything,  seem- 
ingly, on  which  he  placed  his  hand  turned  to 
gold.  He  became  the  president  of  a  large  bank- 
ing establishment.  On  the  land  and  on  the  wa- 
ter he  gave  employment  to  hundreds  of  persons. 
He  married,  and.  as  usual  under  such  circum- 
stances, had  a  splendid  family  establishment. 
His  charities,  too,  were  on  the  most  liberal  scale. 
His  annual  expenses  could  not  have  been  less 
than  eight  or  ten  thousand  dollars.  His  children, 
three  sons  and  two  daughters,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  grew  up  with  the  most  expensive  habits 
for  dress  and  amusements,  without  acquiring  the 
habit  of  doing  anything,  or  having  the  least  re- 
ference to  the  means  for  a  living.  The  conse- 
quence was,  two  of  the  sons  became  dissipated 
and  diseased,  and  early  sunk  into  the  grave.  The 
other  son  was  amiable,  and  not  immoral,  but 
without  efficiency  for  business.  The  two  daugh- 
ters married  young  merchants,  who,  after  a  few 
years,  were  unfortunate,  and  involved  their  fa- 
tlier-in-law  in  heavy  responsibilities.  By  the  aid 
of  friends  both  were  provided  with  foreign  agen- 
cies. The  broken-hearted  daughters  were,  in  a 
few  years,  relieved  by  death  from  poverty  and 
mortification.  Their  days  were  few:  their  sua 
rose  in  beauty  and  brilliancy,  but  was  soon  over- 
cast, and  went  down  in  the  darkness  of  night. 
Their  early  hopes  of  happiness  budded  in  great 
profusion,  but  a  blighting  mildew  caused  them  all 
to  wither  and  die  without  fruit.  Their  fond  mo- 
ther soon  joined  them  in  the  world  of  spirits. 

The  affairs  of  Charles  Beeman  were  hastening 
to  a  perilous  crisis.  As  usual,  misfortunes  come 
not  singly.  His  own  family  expenses  had  been 
enormous.  Sundry  ordinary  business  losses, 
which,  at  former  periods,  would  scarcely  have 
been  thought  of,  but  now,  in  connection  with  an 
accumulation  of  disasters,  became  insupportable. 
There  was  no  other  alternative — bankruptcy  was 
the  unavoidable  result.  His  carriage  and  horses 
were  first  sold ;  then  his  furniture  and  house,  and 
he  took  lodgings  in  a  hotel.  His  business  being 
completely  broken  up,  he  retired  from  his  office 
in  the  bank.  The  only  alleviating  circumstance 
in  all  this  revulsion  was  that  his  feeble  surviving 
son  was  furnished  with  the  office  of  porter  and 
messenger  in  the  same  institution,  on  a  salary 
just  sufficient  to  give  him  a  decent  living.    What 


A  FUNERAL  IN   THE  COUNTRY 


37 


a  desolation  for  one  who,  a  few  years  previous, 
had  estimated  his  wealth  by  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  dollars,  and  had  prided  himself,  at  least, 
with  beautiful  daughters,  who,  with  their  mother, 
were  the  center  of  attraction  in  every  sphere  of 
fashionable  life  1  If  there  is  anything  to  break 
down  the  spirit  of  a  man,  it  is  this.  To  such  an 
one,  the  light  of  day  and  the  blackness  of  mid- 
night are  much  alike.  An  unvarying  paralysis 
settles  down  upon  the  soul.  His  energies  are 
completely  prostrated ! 

For  a  few  years  the  friends  of  Charles  Beeman 
attempted  to  inspire  him  with  vigor  to  engage  in 
mercantile  brokerage,  but  it  was  to  no  purpose. 
He  seemed  to  feel  no  motive  for  making  the  ef- 
fort.   No  one  now  depended  on  him  for  subsis- 
tence, and   to   him   the  world  had  completely 
ceased   to  offer   any   charms.     His    faint  spirit 
seemed  to  yearn  after  some  untried  and  unknown 
panacea  for  a  curative  of  his  malady.     The  op- 
portunity was  soon  discovered.     Disease,  which, 
like  a  ravenous  beast  lying  in  ambush  to  dis- 
cover the  weakest  position  of  the  destined  victim, 
soon  seized  upon  our  life-wearied,  broken-down 
merchant.     It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  whether 
a  consciousness  of  the  fact  gave  him  joy  or  sor- 
row.    He  had,  seemingly,  but  little  remaining 
susceptibility  for  either.     The  world  to  him  had 
become  a  dismal  blank;  and,  as  soon  as  rendered 
morally  certain  that  his  days  were  nearly  num- 
bered, he  acceded  to  the  pressing  invitation  of  his 
brother  James,  to  return  to  Beemantown,  and  be- 
come one  of  his  family  at  the  old  !>omestead_ 
He  did  so ;  and  a  few  trunks  contained  his  ward- 
robe, and  every  vestige  of  his  once  large  estate. 
He  was  there  treated  with  the  utmost  kindness. 
Mrs.  James  Beeman   and  her  lovely  daughters 
were  like  angels  of  mercy;  but  they  were  never 
able  to  raise  a  smile  on  his  pale,  emaciated  fea- 
tures; and  in  three  months,  ten  days,  and  nine 
hours,  the  solemn  tones  of  tlie  churcli  bell,  at  the 
still  hour  of  midnight,  as  we  before  stated,  an- 
nounced to  the  people  of  the  village  and  town- 
ship that  he  had  gone  to  the  land  of  his  fathers. 
There  is  one  leaf  more  in  the  memoir  of  Charles 
Beeman. 

Becoming  greatly  interested  in  the  narrative, 
of  which  the  above  i'S  a  mere  abstract,  we  re- 
solved to  attend  his  funeral,  which  was  to  be  the 
second  day  afterward.  During  the  interval  there 
was  a  chastened  sensation,  which  we  had  never 
before  witnessed,  for  the  death  of  an  individual 
in  private  life.  It,  however,  was  a  sensation  of 
that  calm  and  unobtrusive  character,  which  is 
manifest  only  in  a  general  and  deep  tran  uillity 
of  spirit,  and  in  the  slow  measured  pulsations  of 
labor  and  business.     It  was  a  sensation  springing 


from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart,  and  receiving 
no  type  from  popular  impulse  or  conventional 
power. 

The  day  for  tlie  funeral  arrived.     It  was  one 
of  peculiar  loveliness,  so  well  known  at  that  sea- 
son of  the  year.     Tliere  was  not  a  cloud  to  be 
seen,  and   seemingly  not  a  breath  of  wind  was 
felt.    Nature  was  in  harmony  with  the  mellowed 
and  subdued  passions  visible  on  every  counte- 
nance.     For  some  time  previous  to  the  hour  ap- 
pointed  for  tlic   funeral    obsequies,  tlie   people 
from  the  remote  parts  of  the  town  began  to  as- 
semble.    There  was  a  general  suspension  of  la- 
bor and  of  business.    Little  groups  were  constant- 
ly arriving,  and  the  village  green  was  soon  dot- 
ted over  in  every  part.    The  church  was  filled  to 
overflowing.     Its  ponderous  bell  announced  the 
hour  of  two  o'clock  in  a  loud  sepulchral  cadence- 
The  bell,  a  mile  north  of  the  village,  in  a  few  sec- 
onds gave  a  similar  response  ;  then,  at  a  corres- 
ponding interval  of  time,  echoing  among  the  sur- 
rounding hills,  was  heard  the  other  church  bell  of 
the  towa;  thus  the  three,  in  regular  alternations, 
uttered  their  mournful   thrilling  notes,  till  the 
corpse,  and  the  procession  of  mourning  relatives 
and  friends,   with  slow  and  solemn  steps,  mea- 
sured the  distance  from  the  Beeman  homestead 
to  the  house  of  prayer.    Such  a  spectacle  must 
be  seen  in  order  to  be  fully  appreciated.     One 
might  as  well  impart  to  the  marble  statue  or 
the  canvas,  the  varying  hues  and  the  breathing 
of  the  living  human  form,  as  to  give  sufficient 
delineations  of  it  with  ink  and  paper. 

There  was  not,  indeed,  in  the  procession,  a 
deeply  afflicted  widow,  bowed  down  in  sorrow 
for  the  loved  one  of  her  youth.  There  was  not, 
indeed,  a  cluster  of  orphan  children,  convulsed 
with  anguish  for  the  loss  of  their  only  guide 
and  support,  a  fond  father.  Tiiey  were  in  mercy 
saved  from  this  heart-rending  hour,  in  being  called 
away  before  him.  But  still,  there  was  no  want 
of  sincere  mourners.  All  present  knew  the  sad 
history  of  his  life  ;  most  of  them  had  been  fami- 
liar with  liis  visage ;  all  were  impressed  deeply, 
and  saw  in  that  history  a  memento  of  the  vanity 
of  the  world's  brightest  jewels.  There  was  no 
boisterous  lamentation;  there  were  no  passion- 
ate outpourings  of  stricken  hearts ;  but  the  wide- 
spread, unstudied  silence,  the  downcast  demean- 
or, throughout  this  sad  living  mass,  with  here  and 
there  a  silent  tear,  made  demonstration  that,  in 
the  human  bosom,  there  is  a  chord  that  vibrates 
to  another's  wo.  Here  was  an  irresistible  admo- 
nition not  to  make  haste  in  striving  to  become 
rich  ;  not  to  despise  those  frugal  bounties  wliich 
reward  the  cultivator  of  the  soil;  and  especially, 
i]  not  with  unguarded  pace  to  press  amid  tempta- 


38 


TENNYSON'S   LOCKESLEY  HALL, 


tions  and  perils,  the  consummation  of  which,  not 
uaoften,  is  in  the  cliill  diirkness  of  the  grave  1 

We  have  read  many  essays  and  heard  many 
homilies  on  the  vanity  of  this  world's  glory,  the 
folly  of  priile  and  pompous  exhibitions  in  social 
life,  and  especially  the  canker  which  fixes  itself 
upon  the  heart  of  those  who  despise  the  charms 
of  rural  pleasure  for  the  dehisive  splendors  of 
the  city ;  but  the  history  of  Charles  Beeman 
made  an  impression  upon  us  without  a  parallel. 
These  few  days  in  his  native  village  made  the 
country  seem  more  lovely  to  us,  and  the  city 
more  fraught  with  perils  and  mental  agonies  than 
ever  before  imagined.  Oh,  that  we  had  a  pen  to 
delineate  all  the  incidents,  and  a  pencil  to  place 
duly  on  canvas  all  the  lights  and  the  shadows 


blended  into  each  other,  in  his  memoir  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave  !  Oh,  that  hundreds  of  others, 
known  to  us,  could  have  been  present  to  witness 
what  we  witnessed,  and  to  have  received  that  im- 
pressive culture  we  received,  and  which, we  ap- 
prehend, will  never  be  effaced  from  our  recollec- 
tion !  And  if  the  unnumbered  young  men  in  our 
country,  now  impatient  of  the  toils  and  the  mod- 
erate but  sure  gains  to  be  expected  upon  their 
native  hills  and  valleys,  had  witnessed  it,  there 
would  not  be  such  a  perpetual  rush  to  embark  in 
adventures,  and  to  grasp  at  objects  presenting 
themselves  to  the  inexperienced  visual  powers, — 
in  magnitude  surpassing  the  reality,  as  did  the 
men  first  seen  by  St.  Paul,  after  the  scales  had 
fallen  from  his  eyes — "  like  trees  walking !" 


TENNYSON'S    LOCKESLEY  HALL. 


"  LocKESLEY  Hall"  is  a  poem  of  great  compass, 
and  singular  ingenuity  and  suggestiveness.  Its 
central  thought  has  not,  perhaps,  the  breadth  and 
comprehension  of  the  idea  of  beauty  and  purity 
around  wiiich  "Wordsworth's  grand  "  Ode  on  Im- 
mortality" groups  itself;  nor  of  the  sublimer 
ideas  of  duty,  sin,  atonement,  and  restoration, 
which  pervade  the  "  Ancient  Mariner"  of  Cole- 
ridge. It  is  set  on  a  lower  keynote,  and  ap- 
peals, therefore,  to  wider  sympathies.  Its  key- 
note is  the  universal  passion  of  love.  The  open- 
ing bars  march  triumphantly  in  the  major  strain  ; 
but, unfortunately,  they  soon  encounter  an  abom-' 
inable  discord.  "  Cousin  Amy"  proves  false.  We 
have  then  the  old  story  of  the  course  of  true  love 
never  running  smooth — the  old  wail  over  a  uni- 
versal eclipse  of  nature — the  fine  frenzy  of  a  dis- 
appointed lover,  who  vows  that  he  would  have 
been  an  exception  to  all  liusbands,  and  liave  loved 
the  fickle  fair  one  "  as  never  wife  was  loved !" 
His  lamentations  and  reproaches  in  this  valley 
of  humiliation  are  quite  distressing.  But,  ere  we 
proceed  farther,  let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the 
cause  of  his  sorrow.  A  poet  in  love  should  be 
worth  looking  at. 

He  was  a  model  man.  To  a  nature  originally 
noble  and  heroic,  he  had  added  the  culture  of 
varied  human  learning.  The  present  was  warm 
and  lovely,  and  served  as  a  pedestal  from  wliich 
he  laid  his  hand  and  heart  on  the  past  and  the 
future.    Passively  recipient  of  the  ceaseless  in- 


flux of  beauty,  he  was  at  the  same  time  manfully 
active  in  the  assimilating  process  of  thought  and 
meditation.  To  be,  was  to  be  blessed;  but  the 
bliss  was  not  enough.  Nature  was  a  loving  mo- 
ther, and  he  reposed  lovingly  on  her  bosom. 
Time,  as  revealed  in  history,  was  awfully  sub- 
lime ;  as  adumbrated  in  propliecy  and  hope,  it 
was  radiant  with  unutterable  glory.  He  was 
filled  with  the  vision  of  the  universe,  and  drew 
enjoyment  from  all  parts  of  it.  But  its  infinite 
impersonality  was  too  much,  or  not  enough,  for 
him.  He  longed  for  a  concentration  of  its  worth 
and  loveliness — for  an  incarnation  after  his  own 
image  and  likeness  ;  and  in  Cousin  Amy  he 
found,  for  a  moment,  the  gentle  and  fairer  half 
of  his  dissevered  dual  nature. 

Here,  then,  for  the  many  millionth  time,  the 
vigilance  of  the  guardian  angels  was  eluded,  and 
another  son  of  Adam  walked  with  his  Eve  in  the 
bowers  of  Paradise.  He  had  shared  in  the  gene- 
ral expulsion,  but  the  misfortune  lay  lightly  upon 
him.  He  found  the  outside  world  not  such  a  bad 
world,  after  all ;  and  passed  his  early  days  in 
"  nourishing  a  youth  sublime."  But  now  came 
the  fruit  season ;  at  all  events,  it  was  the  very 
eve  of  harvest.  He  had  awakened  to  the  reality 
and  bliss  of  life,  which,  till  now,  had  been  an  un- 
substantial though  pleasant  dream.  Vast  but 
vague  impersonalities  took  shape  and  form,  and 
ministered  to  him — Amy  being  the  conjuror  at 
whose  bidding  they  came  : 


TENNYSON'S  LOCKESLEY  HALL. 


89 


"  Love  took  up  tlie  glass  of  life,  and  tnrn'il  it  in  his  glowing 

hands, 
Every  moment  hghlly  shaken  ran  itself  in  golden  Bands. 
Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords 

with  might, 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  which,   trembling,    jjass'd  in  music 

out  of  sight." 


Here,  thsn,  -was  the  culminating  point  beyond 
■which  the  projectile  force  of  youthful  enthusiasm 
and  hope  could  not  carry  him.     Here  was  the 
completeness  of  himself,  in  the  gentle  being  who 
confessed  a  mutual  love.     If  he  should  ever  rise 
higher,  it  must  needs  be  by  a  previous  descent, 
more  or  less,  and  by  virtue  of  another  set  of  pro- 
jectile forces.    He  was  caught  in  the  mystical  en- 
tanglements of  another  will  than  his  own  ;  and 
should  Amy  prove  true,  or  should  A\c  prove  false, 
in  either  case,  it  must  be  a  trial  to  him.     In  the 
former  case,    though   permitted  to  plight  their 
vows  in  Eden,  the  vigilant  guardians  would  soon 
find  them  out,  and  peremptorily  serve  tliem  witli 
notice    to   quit.     They  miglit    woo    and   vow    in 
Eden;  but  they  must  not  lead  their  wedded  life 
there.   They  must  go  out  into  the  wilderness,  and 
their  glowing  love  must  be  tested  by  the  tilling 
of  the  ground.     Our  poetdover  protests  that  his 
would  have  stood  it  nobly,  better  thin  any  other 
son  of  Adam's!     But  it  was  not  put  to  the  trial. 
Ere  the  cherubim  thought  fit   to  interfere,  Amy 
turned  out  to  be  another  Eve,  and  her  falsehood 
has  favored  us  with  the  Paradise  Lost  of  "  Lockes- 
ley  Hall." 

An  ingenious  critic  has  surmised  that  Tenny- 
son, in  this  poem,  utters  his  own  experience, 
from  the  impassioned  vehemence  with  which  he 
upbraids  Amy  for  her  fickle  love.  The  sympa- 
thetic nature  of  the  true  poet  suflaciently  ac- 
counts for  this;  but  the  surmise  is  a  higl»  com- 
pliment, and  the  vehemence  is  certainly  very  like 
reality.     "  Is  it  well,"  he  asks — 

'■  Is  it  well  to  wish  tliee  happy  ? — having   known  mo   to  de- 

chne 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings,  and  a  narrbwer  heart  than 

mine  ? 
Yet  it  shall  be.    Thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day, 
AVhat  is  line  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  syiiipalliize  with 

clay  !" 

He  indulges  in  this  strain  for  some  time,  and 
then  tries  hard  to  think  well  of  Amy.  But  it 
won't  do  1 — 

"  Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and   love  her  for  the  love  she 

bore  ? 
No  !  she  never  loved  me  truly  ;  love  is  love  for  evermore. 
Comfort  ?     Comfort  scorn 'd  of  devils  1     This  is  truth  the  poet 

sings. 
That  a  sorrow's   crown  of  sorrow   is  remembering   happier 

things  " 

This  is  pretty  strong.     Turning  to   Amy — 


"Drug  thy  memories,"  he  says.  Then  her  hus- 
band is  hit  off  at  a  stroke — "  Like  a  dog,  lie 
hunts  in  dreams!"  Looking  down  the  black, 
blank  future,  a  rival  is  descried  in  Amy's  little 
child,  and  the  mother  is  seen  schooling  down  its 
feelings — "  they  were  dangerous  guides,  the  feel- 
ings "  He  can  stand  it  no  longer,  and  turns  from 
her  with  the  bitter  curse — "Perish  in  thy  seLf- 
contempt!" 

But  there  was  no  use  in  lamentations  and  re- 
proaches. Mere  talk  won't  do ;  and  something 
else  must  be  attempted.  It  was  a  decided  case 
of  shipwreck  ;  but  castaway  mariners  have  been 
known  to  construct  rafts,  and,  by  favor  of  the  ele- 
ments and  their  own  valor,  to  get  wafted  again 
into  the  fair  trade-winds.  Something  must  be 
done ; 

"  I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair." 

But  where  was  a  field  ?  where  an  opening  ?  Ev- 
ery gate  was  thronged  witli  suitors.  There  was 
a  rush  and  crush  of  men  ;  and  tiie  jingling  of  the 
guinea  was  the  music  to  which  tliey  led  their 
mad  dance.  All  was  eclipse  and  dislocation  ;  but 
gleams  shot  athwart  the  darkness  now  and  then, 
giving  momentary  glimpses  of  the  mountain-tops 
of  a  land  of  hope.     But  how  to  get  to  it  ? 

"  Can  I  hut  re  live  in  sadness?  I  will  turn  ihatearlier  page — 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  oh,  thou   wondrous  mother 
age!" 

We  like  this,  especially  the  reversion  to  the 
"  earlier  page;"  and  if  our  love-sick  poet  would 
but  set  himself,  with  heart  of  grace,  to  fight  the 
world  again,  we  should  predict  well  of  his  next 
trial.     He  prays  again — 

"  Make   me   feel   the   wild  pulsation  that  T  felt    before  the 

strife. 
When  1  heard  my  days  before  me,  and   the  tumult  of  my 

hie  : 
Yearning   for  the   large  e.xcitement  that  the  coining  years 

would  yield, 
I    Eager-hearted  as  a   boy  when    first  he    leaves   his  father'' 

field"  — 

1  And  away  to  great  Babylon,  in  among  the  crush, 
;  and  competition,  and  excitement  of  multitudes  of 
1   men  : — 

]   "  Men  my  brotliers !  men  the  workers  !    ever    reaping  some- 
1  thing  new, 

]    That  which  tlic^y   have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that 
]|  they  shall  do. 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 
'i    Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all   the  wonder  that  would 
'  be. 

1  ....... 

i    Till  the  war-drum   throbb'd   no  longer,  and   the  battle  flags 

I  were  I'url'd 

In  the  parliament  of  men,  the  federation  of  the  world." 

I' 

II  This  was  his  vision  ere  the  fire  tempest  swept 
,i  over  him.     He  prays  that  it  may  come  again ; 


40 


TENNYSON'S    LOCKESLEY    HALL. 


and  it  does  come,  but  with  a  shadow.  The  times 
are  out  of  joint,  and  Amy  has  done  it  alll  But 
faith  has  not  yet  left  him.  He  cannot  see  clear- 
ly—Amy has  blinded  him  by  excess  of  light- 
but  he  believes : — 

let  I  doubt  not  tlirongh  tlie  ages  one  increasing  purpose 
runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the 
suns." 

A  noble  faith  !  No  doubt,  the  battle  of  life 
wdl,  to  the  aggregate  army,  finally  issue  in  vic- 
tory. Every  captain  and  every  private  who  falls 
in  the  trenches  serves  to  fill  up  a  gap,  and  sur- 
vivors march  easier  and  fight  better  from  the  van- 
tage ground  of  their  dead  comrades.  The  mil- 
lennium will  come;  and  the  great  unity  of  hu- 
manity, as  if  it  had  sufiered  no  loss  in  the  con- 
flict, will  march  in  and  take  possession.  But, 
alas ! 

'•  What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful 
joys, 

Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beats  forever  like  a 
boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  we  linger  on 
the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and 
more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,, and  he  bears  a  la- 
den breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience  moving  t'ward  the  stillness  of  liis 
rest  I" 

We  cannot  de.epair  of  our  poet-lover,  knowing 
that  there  is  such  faith  within  him.  But  while 
these  shadows  (indeed,  they  are  very  grim  reali- 
ties) are  upon  him,  we  should  not  be  surprised  if 
they  bred  some  wild  fancy.  Accordingly,  after 
turning  once  more  to  Amy  the  lost— professing 
to  be  ashamed  of  himself  for  having  loved  so  lii^ht 
a  thing — and  descanting  on  the  feminine  nature 
in  general,  which,  as  compared  with  man's,  is 
(man  being  judge)  like  moonliglit  to  sunlight,  like 
water  to  wine,  he  declares  that  lie  will  retreat  far 
into  the  "  shining  Orient,"  and  there  wed  a  savage 
woman,  and  rear  a  wild  strong  race.  How  will 
Amy  take  that  !  But  no ;  her  old  lover  won't  lay 
such  revenge  upon  her.  Tiiere  is  a  touch  of 
fierceness  in  the  revulsion  with  which  he  turns 
from  his  imaginary  eastern  bride;  but  we  over- 
look that,  in  consideration  of  the  sublimity  of  a 
passage  whose  poetry  is  equalled  only  by  its 
truly  compreliensive  and  philosophical  estimate 
of  western  civilization  ! — 

"Fool!    Again  the  dream,  the  fancy!    But  I  know   my 
words  are  wild  ; 
But  I  count  the  grey  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian 
child. 

I  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious 

gai  ns — 
Like  a  beast,  with  lower  pleasures— like  a  beast,  with 

lower  pains ! 


Mated  with  a  squalid  savage,  what  to  me  were  sun  or 

clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  ! 
I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze,  like  Joshua's  moon 

in  Ajalon." 

So,  then,  the  word  is  onward.  It  is  the  lesson 
of  his  losses  and  disappointments.  Let  us  hear 
him  once  more  : 

"  Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.    Forward,  forward,  let 

us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves 

of  change  ; 
Through  the  shadow   of  the  globe,  we   sweep  into  the 

younger  day ; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe,  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay  !" 

We  have  another  prayer  to  "  mother  age"  for 
the  early  vision,  or  for  the  clear  eye  that  saw  it ; 
and  the  answer  is  gracious  : — 

"  0  !  I  see  the  orescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set, 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through  all  my  fancy 
yet  !" 

Farewell  now  to  "  Lockesley  Hall,"  and  on  to 
the  younger  day ! 

Enough,  we  trust,  has  been  given  of  this  splen- 
did poem  to  induce  readers  who  do  not  know  it 
to  make   themselves   acquainted  with  it  in  the 
poet's  own  pages.     We  do  not  hold  it  up  as  of  the 
first  order ;  but  it  has  a  unity  and  completeness, 
and  strictly  conforms   to  the  orthodox  standard, 
which  requires  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end . 
It  is  delivered  as  a  soliloquy.     The   poet,   with 
some  companions,  visits  Lockesley  Hall,  tiie  scenes 
of  his  early  days  ;  and  begging  them  to  leave  him 
alone  awhile  in  the  cool  morning,  he  travels  in 
spirit  through  the  lights  and  shadows  of  tiie  past — 
storming,  criticizing,  philosophizing,  resolving,  re- 
tracting, and  closing,  as  we  have  seen,  a  sadder 
and  a  wiser  man.     All  morning  days  are  fair  and 
tranquil,  and  his  were  so  pre-eminently.     Few  of 
us  probably  remember  an  out-and-out  cloudy  day 
in  our  first  seven  years.  And  then,  with  the  light 
of  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  was  mingled  a  "licht 
that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore" — a  light  from  the 
fountain-heads   of   inspiration  and    history,   and 
from  the  shores  of  old  romance.    Many  of  us  can 
sympathize  with  these  reminiscences  : — 

"Here,  about  the  beach  I  waiider'd,  nourishing  a  youth 
sublime, 

'V\'"ith  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  results  of 
time  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me,  like  a  fruitful  land  re- 
posed ; 

"When  I  clung  to  all  the  present,  for  the  promise  that  it 
closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could 
see — 

Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that 
would  be." 


ASSOCIATIONS. 


41 


Natural  and  intellectual  beauty  rose  with  the 
poet's  birth,  grew  with  his  growth,  soared  into 
the  empyrean  with  the  sun  of  his  life,  and  cul- 
minated in  conjunction  with  the  warmer  beauty 
of  young  Jove.  Amy's  love  painted  the  lily  and 
gilded  the  sunbeams.  But  in  proportion  to  this 
height  and  splendor,  were  the  fall  and  the 
eclipse.  This  brings  us  to  the  middle  passage, 
which  is  full  of  blackness,  and  thunders,  and  tem- 
pest. From  this  point,  the  action  of  the  poem 
struggles  upwards.  Longing,  lingering  looks  are 
cast  behind ;  but  we  are  in  the  presence  of  one 
who  will  not  be  mastered  by  elements  and  cir- 
cumstances, but  will  master  them  in  the  end,  and 
compel  them  to  do  him  suit  and  service.  He 
had  been  deeply  wounded,  and  the  scars  will 
ever  remain ;  but  he  will  pluck  wisdom  from  sor- 
row, and  final  victory  from  temporary  defeat. 

Our  readers  will  find  out  the  passages  of  strik- 
ing force  and  beauty  for  themselves,  and  we  need 
not  point  them  to  such  as 

"  I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  ;" 

Or 

"  But  I  deem  the  grey  barbarian  lotrer  than  the  Christian 
child." 

These  and  there  are  many  such)  strike  the 
key-note  of  whole  epics ;  they  open  the  flood- 
gates of  thought ;  they  throw  a  halo  over  the  im- 
mensity of  history,  and  the  narrower  boundaries 
of  our  present  civilization.  We  have  rarely  met 
with  lines  which  struck  deeper  chords  of  melan- 
choly than  those  beginning — 


'•  What  is  that  to  hiia  that  reaps  not,"  &c. 
The  idea  portrayed  in  those  lurid  yet  burning 
words  must  often  have  forced  itself  on  the  obser- 
vant and  reflective  mind.  There  are  mighty 
agencies  at  work  for  the  amelioration  of  the  hu- 
man race — agencies  divine  in  their  origin,  and 
worked  onwards  by  the  best  wisdom  and  strength 
of  man;  but,  while  radiant  with  promise,  they 
are  barren  of  immediate  fruit ;  and  while  faith 
descries  a  rich  harvest  under  the  furrows  of  the 
new-ploughed  field,  and  in  the  blades  and  leaves 
which  appear  above  the  ground  and  on  the  trees  ; 
what  is  that  to  the  myriads  who  are  even  now- 
dying  of  hunger  ? 
"  "What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful 

joys, 
Though  the  great  heart  of  existence  beats  for  ever  like  a. 

boy's  ?'' 
The  whole  poem,  indeed,  is  studded  with  gems 
of  thought,  which  throw  a  light  into  the  far  and 
wide  region  of  things.  It  is  "  most  musical,  most 
melancholy"  throughout,  till  within  a  few  stanzas 
of  the  close,  and  then  we  have  the  bright  shin- 
ing after  the  rain  : — 

"  0  !  I  .see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set, 
-  Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through  all  my  fancy 

yet  :■' 
It  is  some  twenty  years  since  these  lines  were  first 
published;  and  that  they  were  literally  true  then, 
and  are  true  still,  was  abundantly  manifested,  a 
few  months  ago,  in  tlie  publication,  by  their  au- 
thor, of  the  poem,  "in  Memoriam,"  which  the 
critics  have  received  with  an  unanimous  chorus 
of  praise. 


ASSOCIATIONS. 


Behold  llie  valley  in  the  moonlight  sleeping, 

How  sootliini;  is  its  pastor.il  repose — 
A  goodly  scene  for  eyes  bedlmmed  with  weeping. 
Ere  wearied  eyelids  on  the  pillow  close. 
She  said,  "  I  know  the  land  is  very  fair; 
But  ah,  ray  childhood's  footfall  never  boanded  there!'* 

Behold  the  ancient  woods  in  golden  glory, 

Peek  ye  their  solitary  mystic  glade«. 
List  to  the  shining  river's  babbling  story. 
By  flowery  banks  or  bowering  orchard  shades. 
She  sai<l,  "  Not  there  I  heard  the  pleading  words. 
More  thrilling  far  than  song  of  sweetest  woodland  birds  !" 


Behold  the  ivied  tower  and  mouldering  walls. 

From  whence  the  voice  of  |)rai?e  ascends  on  high, 
An<I  chiming  bells,  whose  welcome  influence  falls 
On  pilgrim  hearts  like  music  from  the  sky. 
She  said,   'Thrice  hallowed  be  the  house  of  prayer  ; 
Bnl  no  beloved  dust  lies  consecrated  there ! 

Behold  the  radiant  stars  are  gazing  down 

In  myriads  on  the  shrouded  world  beneath, 
While  we.  lamenting  misspent  moments  flown, 
May  ponder  mysteries  of  life  and  death. 
She  said,  "  The  dove  sought  rest — no  rest  it  found  : 
The  ark  is  still  our  home,  though  billows  surge  around  !  " 


CHARLES   I.    AND   CROMWELL. 


BT      REV,      JOSEPH      P.      THOMPSON 


BEE     PLATE, 


Charles  I.  and  Oliver  Cromwell,  names  inse- 
parably associated  in  history,  and  each  in  a  diffe- 
rent mode  receiving  distinction  from  the  other  ! 
Various  as  are  the  contrasts  in  wliich  they  have 
been  presented  by  historians  of  opposite  schools, 
there  is  yet  another  to  be  drawn  from  materials 
recently  brouglit  to  light,  and  in  accordance  with 
the  modern  standard  of  greatness.     The  one  has 
been  regarded  as  a  tyrant,   and  the   other  as  a 
scourge,  appointed  of  God  for  his  overthrow ;  and 
again,  the  first  has  been  represented  as  an  amia- 
able,  though  misguided  prince,  and  the  second  as 
a  usurper,  climbing  to  the  summit  of  power,   by 
treachery  and  blood.     The  one  has  been  denoun- 
ced for  his  duplicity,  and  the  other  extolled  for 
his  integrity  ;  and  again,  the    former  has  been 
canonized  as  a  saint,  and  the  latter  stigmatized  as 
an  arch-hypocrite.     The  one  has  been  held  up  as 
the  oppressor  of  God's  people,  and  the  other  ^s 
their  champion  :  and  again,  Charles  appears  as  a 
martyr,  and  Cromwell  as  an  enthusiast.     Never 
.  did    men  wear   such  diversified  characters,  nor 
come  into  such  endless  contrast  with  themselves, 
and  with  each  other.     The  contrast  suggested  by 
the  plates  before  us,  differs  from  any  enumerated 
above,   but  is  warranted  by  all  reliable  history. 
Charles  and   Cromwell  are  tvjo  different  types  of 
royalty  ;  the  one  represents  hereditary  royalty, 
the  royalty  of  form  and  tradition;  the  other,  the 
royalty  of  a  true  manhood.     Eacli  was  a  monarch 
in  his  way  ;  the   one   became   conspicuous  as   a 
king  contending  for  the  prerogatives  of  a  royalty, 
the  other  was  made  no  less  conspicuous,  as  a  man 
contending  for  the  rights  of  m  an. 

Cromwell  appears  in  an  historical,  or  rather  a 
fictitious  compgsition  ; — for  the  scene,  of  which 
the  artist  has  so  finely  conceived,  is  probably 
without  any  foundation  in  fact.  Here  is  an  in- 
teresting group,  the  family  of  Oliver,  from  his 
aged  mother  to  his  youngest  son,  interceding  for 
the  life  of  Charles.  But  if  anything  can  be  made 
certain  in  Cromwell's  history,  it  is  that  he  did  not 
originally  contemplate  the  extinction  of  the  royal 


line,  and  that  he  sought  to  avert  the  tragic   end 
of  the  king  when  the  safety  of  the  state  seemed 
to  demand  the  sacrifice.     Before  Charles  was  ar- 
raigned by  parliament  for  high  treason,  Cromwell 
was  accused  by  the  radicals  of  liaving  connived  at 
his  escape  from  the  kingdom.     "  It  was  evident," 
says  Ludlow,  "  that  the  king  had  escaped  (from 
Hampton  Court)  by  Cromwell's  advice."     Crom- 
well found  it  to  be  necessary  to  the  peace  and 
safety  of  the  commonwealth,  that  Charles,  whom 
he  had  desired  to  see  established  in  legitimate 
and  constitutional  authority,  should  be  removed 
from  the  throne  ;  but  at  this  time  he  would  have 
been  content  with  the  flight  or  banishment  of  the 
king.     He  put  down  the  "levelers"  in  the  army, 
as  being  themselves  guilty  of  high  treason.     He 
ordered  Whalley,  when  he  had  the   king  in  his 
custody,  to  protect  him  from  all  violence  and  in- 
sult.    He  did  not  take  the  lead  in  the  impeach- 
ment of  Charles,  and  he  signed  his  death-warrant 
with  reluctance,  from  a  stern,  though,    perhaps, 
mistaken  conviction  of  its  necessity.     We  know 
not  how  much  influence  his  family  may  have  had 
in  inclining  him  to  that  lenient  course  which  he  so 
long  favored,   but  it  seems  rather  to  have  been 
his  own  preference  from  the  first.     It  was  not  till 
Cromwell  had  lost   all  confidence  in  Charles — 
until  he  was   satisfied  the   king,   who,  "either 
would  sign  no  convention,  or  whom  no  treaty  and 
no  signature  could  bind,"  that  he  consented  to  the 
dreadful  expedient  of  removing  him  by  the  axe 
of  the  executioner.     Even  Clarendon,  the  royalist, 
declares  that  "  Cromwell  was  not  so  far  a  man  of 
blood  as  to   follow   Machiavel's   method,  which 
prescribes,  upon  a  total  alteration  of  government 
as  a  thing  absolutely  necessary,  to  cut  off  all  the 
heads  of  those,  and  extirpate  their  families,  who 
are  friends  to  the  old  one.      It  was   confidently 
reported,  that  in  the  council  of  ofiicers,  it  was 
more  than  once  proposed  that  there  might  be  a 
general  massacre  of  all  the  royal  party,  as  the 
only   expedient  to   secure  the  government,  but 
that  Cromwell  never  would  consent  to  it." 


'.'TT£D  Ef^l—- — 


fv  .T.aARTAIN 


^m.mm^of'w.mmmtvL  ijpjifEiscoiEiDaM'SroR.THt  ilgfiEof  €IK]M(ilii§  \. 


CHARLES   I.    AND   CROMWELL, 


43 


Thi:5  accords  with  what  we  learn  of  Cromwell's 
character  from  other  sources.*  Terrible  as  he  was 
in  battle,  when  duty  summoned  him  to  the  field, 
be  was  ever  tender  and  compassionate  towards 
individual  suffering  ;  a  stern,  yet  a  merciful  man. 
The  intercession  of  the  family  of  Cromwell  for  the 
life  of  Charles,  however  pleasing  as  a  picture, 
must  be  regarded  as  a  fiction.  The  piece  is  more 
creditable  to  the  artist's  knowledge  of  painting 
than  of  history.  It  will  be  serviceable  to  us 
merely  on  account  of  the  portraits  of  Cromwell. 
"We  have  no  means  of  ascertaining  what  authority 
the  artist  has  followed.  There  is  not  the  same 
uniformity  in  the  portraits  of  Cromwell  as  in  those 
of  Charles.  The  best  were  executed  by  Walker; 
those  by  Cooper  are  good  also, — prints  of  which 
may  be  seen  in  various  collections.  The  profile 
likeness,  originally  in  the  possession  of  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  is  contained  in  Birch's  '•  Collection 
of  Illustrious  Heads,'  engraved  by  Iloubraker 
and  Virtue.  It  seems  to  have  been  taken  late  in 
the  life  of  the  Protector,  and  its  features  are 
coarse  and  homely  enough.  The  full  face  of 
Oliver,  by  Ciioper,  may  be  seen  in  Rapin's  His- 
tory ;  and  the  famous  portrait  in  military  cos- 
tume, by  Walker,  adorns  Kiissell'.-i  Cromwell,  and 
is  issued  by  the  Harpers,  in  their  "Family  Li- 
brary." The  features  of  the  last  two  haimonize 
well  in  the  main  with  each  other,  and  with  Oliver 
in  the  print  before  us.  We  have  the  same  mas- 
sive head — the  same  broad  and  capacious  fore- 
head— the  same  hard,  thoughtful,  care-worn, 
countenance — the  same  flowing  hair — the  same 
prominent,  unclassic  nose,  and  the  same  wart 
bristling  under  the  lower  lip.  Our  print  conveys 
a  little  more  mildness  and  benignity  of  expression, 
as  was  befitting  the  supposed  occasion. 

Charles  was  a  fit  representative  of  hereditary 
royalty:  comely  in  person,  and  graceful  in  his 
manners  ;  of  respectable  mental  capacity  and  at- 
tainments— correct  in  his  deportment,  free  from 
the  vices  that  disgraced  his  father's  court;  chaste 
and  temperate — neither  given  to  jirofaneness 
and  obsceneness  in  speech,  nor  to  licentiousness 
in  conduct ;  upright  in  his  dealings  with  individu- 
als ;  sedate,  studious,  and  even  devout ;  of  the 
best  blood  in  the  three  kingdoms,  and  in  the 
prime  of  manhood,  he  came  to  the  throne,  seem- 
ingly prepared  to  eiiuble  and  adorn  it.  But  lie 
was  infatuated  with  royalty.  Prerogative  was 
his  idol.  The  king  was,  in  his  eyes,  the  very 
chief  of  men.  Everytiiing  must  give  place  to  the 
wishes  of  the  crown.  This  led  to  tiiose  successive 
usurpations  upon  the  rights  of  the  people,  which 
at  length  aroused  the  spirit  of  the  whole  nation, 

*  History  of  the  Rebellion.    Book  it. 


brought  even  the  sacredness  of  royalty  itself  to 
bow  at  the  footstool  of  justice.  At  first  tlie  Com- 
mons, disposed  to  grant  him  a  fair  trial,  voted 
him  liberal  subsidies.  But  they  foon  discovered, 
that  instead  of  being  recognized  by  the  court  ds 
the  only  power  competent  to  levy  supplies,  they 
were  made  use  of  as  a  mere  expedient  fur  tliat 
end.  The  king's  demands  grew  more  and  more 
unreasonable;  the  non-compliance  of  the  Com- 
mcns  was  regarded  as  contumacy,  and  the  never- 
failing  prerogative  was  opposed  to  every  remon- 
strance. Then  came  the  schism  between  the 
king  and  Parliament,  the  violent  interference 
with  the  privileges  of  the  latter,  the  unlawful  im- 
position of  taxes,  the  revival  of  the  "  forest  laws," 
the  resumption  of  crown  grants  in  Ireland  and 
elsewhere,  the  levying  of  tines  in  London  city,  and 
the  confiscation  of  landed  estates,  "tonnage  and 
poundage,"  and  "ship  money,"  and  the  long  cata- 
logue of  grievances  under  which  a  too  jiaticnt 
people  groaned  without  redress.  And  all  thi.i 
because,  as  even  Hume  allows,  the  king  enter- 
tained too  "lofty  ideas  of  monarchal  power,"  and 
would  att'ect  a  "stately  style."  Peligion,  too, 
must  be  under  the  control  of  the  king;  and  the 
Star  Chamber  and  the  High  Commission  must  be 
instituted,  and  firesides  must  be  invaded,  and 
England  filled  with  spies,  and  made  one  vast 
whispering  gallery,  that  the  king  may  be  assured 
that  even  his  secret  onlers  are  punctiliously  ob- 
served. The  king  must  be  supreme — must  be 
all. 

Charles  clung  to  his  prerogative  in  every 
change  of  fortune.  It  was  his  one  idea.  It 
made  him  perfidious  in  his  treaties  with  the  Par- 
liament. He  must  not  only  be  a  king,  but  a 
king  after  his  own  ideal. 

lie  carried  his  prerogative  with  him  into  his 
confinement.  On  his  flight  from  Hampton  Court, 
he  writes  to  Parliament  that,  so  soon  as  they  re- 
turn to  a  just  temper,  he  will  "break  through 
this  cloud  of  retirement,  and  show  [himself] 
ready  to  be  Pater  Patrire!"  When  allowed  a 
temporary  release,  the  Parliament,  before  being 
purged  by  Colonel  Pride,  having  concluded  an 
armistice  with  him,  he  returned  to  Windsor,  as 
much  of  the  king  as  ever.  "He  was  delighted  to 
re-enter  one  of  his  own  palaces,  and  be  served 
with  all  tlie  etiquette  of  court.  He  dined  in  pub- 
lic, in  tiie  hall  of  state,  under  a  canopy;  the 
chamberlain,  esquire-carver,  master  of  the  cere- 
monies, and  cup-bearer,  waite<l  upon  him  in  the 
accustomed  manner;  the  cup  was  presented  to 
him  kneeling,  and  all  the  ceremonial  of  kingly 
state  was  preserved."  Charles  maintained  what 
little  he  could  of  this  "kingly  state,"  in  the  verj' 
last  scene^j  of  his  tragic  life.     When  the  High 


44 


CHARLES  I.    AND   CR0M3VELL. 


Court  of  Justice  has  been  constituted,  which  is  to 
try  him  for  high  treason,  "  the  king  is  thrice 
brought  to  tlie  bi^.r;  refuses  to  plead,  comports 
himself  -with  kingly  dignity,  -with  royal  haughti- 
ness, strong  in  his  divine  right;  smiles  contempt- 
uously ;  '  looks  with  an  austere  countenance  ;' — 
does  not  seem,  till  the  verj"  last,  to  have  fairly  be- 
lieved  that  they  would  dare  to  sentence  him." 

Charles  stood  forth  as  the  champion  of  heredi- 
tary royalty.  From  tirst  to  last  he  was  a  king- 
A  king  in  tiie  robes  of  state,  and  with  the  crown 
of  the  Stuarts  upon  his  head,  a  king  in  the  bat- 
tle and  in  the  rout,  a  king  in  the  custody  of  Ham- 
mond and  in  the  confinement  of  Hurst  Castle,  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  a  king  as  he  lays  his  liead  upon 
the  block.  Prerogative  with  him  could  never 
die  ;  bleeding  and  headless  he  was  still  the 
phantom  of  royalty. 

In  Cromwell  we  find  no  trace  of  hereditary 
royalty.  He  was  maternally  descended  from  the 
house  of  Stuart,  but  his  nearest  approach  to  roy- 
alty in  childhood  was  ^yhe^  he  was  about  four 
years  old  ; — King  James  coming  from  the  north 
to  take  possession  of  the  English  crown,  stopped 
for  two  days  at  Binchinbrook  House,  the  "  state- 
ly mansion"  of  Oliver's  uncle,  on  the  left  bank  of 
the  Ouse.  Did  little  Oliver  then  romp  and 
wrestle  with  young  prince  Charles  ?  so  the  old 
legends  say.  If  so,  we  will  warrant  that  Oliver 
came  oif  victorious.  But  Oliver  had  a  true  roy- 
alty in  him,  which  m-ust  one  day  appear  at  the 
liead  of  England,  at  the  head  of  mankind.  He 
was  early  educated  to  manliness.  No  pomp  nor 
luxury  did  he  witness  in  his  father's  house,  but  he 
did  witness  there  the  industry,  frugality,  and 
thrift  of  a  plain  country  gentleman,  and  the 
sincere  and  humble  piety  of  a  genuine  though  not 
an  humble  Puritan.  Evenhis  good  uncle  Oliver, 
now  a  knight,  grew  less  courtly  as  he  grew  older 
and  poorer.  Brought  up  chiefly  upon  his  father's 
farm,  Oliver  v>'as  nevertheless  entered  at  Cam- 
bridge at  seventeen  ;  whence  he  was  recalled  the 
next  year  by  the  death  of  his  father,  to  act  as  the 
head  of  the  bereaved  family. 

Having  pic'^cd  up  a  lifJe  knowledge  of  law 
at  Lonilon,  I.e  Fettled  down  at  twenty-one,  a 
married  man, and  soon  became  asinceie  Christian. 
He  leads  a  quiet  life,  interests  himself  principal- 
ly in  the  affairs  of  the  neighborhood,  especially  :n 
its  religious  aflfairs,  till  at  about  the  age  of  thirtj^ 
his  neighbors  sent  him  to  parliament,  the  third 
parliament  of  Charles.  Here  matters  had  al- 
ready reached  a  crisis  ;  the  remonstrance  against 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  and  the  "  Petition  of 
Rights,"  were  among  the  doings  of  this  parliament. 
The  House  resolved  itselfintoa  Committee  of  Re- 
ligion. The  member  for  Huntingdon  was  interest- 


ed in  the  state  of  religion  ;  and  when  that  matter 
was  introduced,  he  had  something  to  say.  He  was 
found  upon  the  side  of  Christian  liberty  and  of 
spiritual  religion.  Referring  to  the  "  flat  Popery," 
preached  with  the  approbation  of  certain  bishops, 
he  asked,  "  If  these  are  the  steps  to  church  pre- 
ferment, icliat  are  we   to  expect  P      They  who 
listened   so   respectfully   to   the   modest  young 
speaker,  had  frequent  occasion  to  rememberthat 
significant  inquiry.     Through  that  plain  country 
suit,  those  dingy,  old-fashioned  ruffles,  that  hard 
favored  countenance,  and  that  harsh  voice,  they 
discerned  the  look,    the  tone,   the  bearing,  the  ' 
spirit,  of  the    man  of  England's  destiny.     Thus, 
^n  his  first  public  act,  the  sympathies  of  Cromwell 
were    manifested  in  behalf  of  the  rights  of  con- 
science, and  then  they  were  enlisted  for  life.  As  a 
member  of  Parliament,  as  a  Captain  of  Dragoons, 
as  a  Lieutenant-General,  as  Commander-in-Chief, 
and  as  Protector,   he  speaks,  he  acts,  he  fights, 
for  the  rights  of  men,  their  rights  of  conscience 
first,  their  civil  rights  next.      He  is  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  great  principle  of  constitutional  li- 
berty, whicl)  principle  came  in  his  time  into  col- 
lision  with  hereditary  royalty.     One  of  his  first 
acts  as  a  military  man,  was  to  protect  those  who 
were    "likely    to   sufi'er   for   their  consciences." 
"This,"  said  he,  "  is  a  quarrelsome  age,  and  the 
anger  seems  to  me  to  be  'the  worse,  where  the 
ground   is  diff"erence  of    appearance  ;  wliich   to 
curse,  to  hurt  men  in  their  houses,  persons,  or  es- 
tates will  not  be  found  an  apt  remedy"     (Letter 
V).  Again,  in  his  report  of  the  storming  of  Bristol, 
he  adds  a  few  paragraphs  of  a  religious  nature,  in 
which  he  says,    "  In  tilings  of  the  mind  %ve  look 
for  no  compulsion,  hut  that  of  light  and  reason" 
(Letter  XV).  Still  further,  in  the  paper  address- 
ed by  the  army  to  the  city  of  London,   1G47,  he 
says,  "  We  could  wish  that  every   gocid  citizen 
and  every  man  who  walks  peaceably  in  blameless 
conversation,   and  is  lieneficial  to  the   common- 
wealth, might  have  liberty  and  encouragement, 
this  being  according  to  the  true  policy  of  all  states, 
and  even  to  justice  itself."    Such  were  the  princi- 
ples which   Cromwell  espoused.      He  was   the 
champion  of  liberty  and  truth.     As  such,  he  stood 
forth  at  the  head  of  the  age.     Weil  might  Milton 
invoke  him,  saying: — 

"  Help  us  to  sa%'e  free  conscience  from  tlie  paw 
Oriiireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their  maw." 

But  is  he  not  an  usurper  ?  So  the  loyalists  have 
said,  and  history  has  perpetuated  the  charge.  In 
a  caricature  of  his  refusal  of  the  crown,  he  is  re- 
presented asTyrannus,  being  crowned  with  vipers 
by  Perfidy  and  Cruelty.  But  read  his  life,  as  it 
appears  in  his  own  letters  and  speeches,  and  you 
will  see  that  no  ofiice  did  he  hold  from  Captain 


CHARLES  I.   AND   CROMWELL. 


45 


of  Dragoons  to  Lord  Protector,  ^hich  was  not 
forced  upon  him,  without  his  seeking,  by  tiie  so- 
licitation of  his  friends,  or  by  the  necessity  of  the 
times.  He  struggled  for  constitutional  liberty, 
first  under  a  king,  next  without  a  king.  The 
people  were  not  fully  ripe  for  it.  Circumstances 
threw  him  into  a  false  position.  He  had  no  well 
digested  plan  of  government  to  substitute  for  the 
fallen  monarchy,  because  he  had  not  anticipated 
the  overthrow  of  monarchy ;  but  he  suited  himself 
to  the  exigency  when  it  came,  and  at  length 
seized  the  helm  to  save  the  ship  from  being 
stranded.  But  he  used  power  with  moderation, 
and  never  abandoned  liis  first  principles.  See 
how  faithfully  he  harangues  his  own  parliament 
upon  religious  liberty.  He  would  not  have  an 
exclusive  state  religion  ;  but  would  infuse  Chris- 
tianity as  a  spiritual,  vitalizing  principle,  into  the 
State.  He  respected  the  consciences  of  all  men. 
He  aimed  to  make  it  the  glory  of  his  administra- 
tion, "  to  avoid  tyrannous  imposition,  either  upon 
men  as  men,  or  Christians  as  Christians."  Such 
was  Cromwell.  He  borrows  no  distinction  from 
office  ;  a  crown  would  not  have  exalted  him  ;  no 
title,  neither  "His  Highness,"  nor  the  "Lord 
Protector,"  so  well  becomes  him  as  "  the  man 
Oliver." 

The  distinction  which  we  have  drawn  between 
Charles  and  Crotnwell,  may  be  traced  in  the  char- 
acter of  those  whom  they  selected  as  their  coun- 
sellors and  associates.  In  the  beginning  of  his 
reign,  Charles  was  under  the  lead  of  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  an  unprincipled  courtier,  who  well 
understood  the  weak  point  of  Charles's  character, 
and  knew  how  to  exalt  him  by  flattery.  Nor  was 
Strafford  a  whit  behind  him  in  burning  incense 
to  royalty.  In  matters  of  religion,  Laud,  with 
whom  a  surplice,  a  cross,  a  genuflexion,  were 
essential,  had  absolute  control. 

Cromwell  drew  around  him,  in  Church  and 
State,  as  noble  a  band  of  men  as  ever  adorned  any 
age.  Sir  Matthew  Hale,  whose  maxims  of  economy 
and  religion  are  worthy  to  be  the  vade  meciim  of 
every  youth,  then  dignified  the  highest  seat  of 
justice.  In  the  oflice  of  State  we  find  John  Mil- 
ton, that  same  Milton  who  comforted  himself  un- 
der th«  loss  of  sight  with  the  reflection,  that  he 
was  deprived  of  it  by  writing  laboriously  in  de- 
fence of  liberty.  The  army,  which  Cromwell 
would  have  to  consist  of  godly  men, — as  the  only 
men  who  could  do  battle  for  English  liberty,  that 
praying,  fasting,  psalm-singing  army,  enjoyed  the 
ministrations  of  Baxter;  and  the  Protector  made 
choice  of  John  Howe  to  be  his  private  chaplain  ; 
a  selection  creditable  at  once  to  his  discernment 
and  his  piety.  Struck  with  the  appearance  of 
Howe,  then  a  humble  but  godly  preacher  at  Tor- 


rington,  who  chanced  one  Sabbath  to  be  present 
at  Whitehall  Cliapel,  Cromwell  insisted  that  he 
should  preach  in  his  hearing.  This  done  nothing 
could  satisfy  Cromwell  but  the  stated  ministra- 
tions of  Howe.  Think  of  a  "hypocrite"  select- 
ing such  a  chaplain !  The  men  whom  Cromwell 
had  about  him,  were  not  courtiers  nor  flatterers ; 
they  were  the  fast  friends  of  liberty  and  truth, 
and  the  character  of  Cromwell  is  reflected  in 
them. 

It  is  a  matter  of  unavailing  regret,  that  Howe, 
having  preserved  "large  memorials  of  the  mate- 
rial passages  of  his  own  life  and  of  the  times 
wherein  he  lived,"  which  men  "  stitched  together 
in  a  multitude  of  small  volumes,"  should,  upon 
his  death  bed,  have  extorted  a  promise  to  destroy 
them  all.  Had  these  been  preserved,  what  ma- 
terials we  should  have  had  for  a  life  of  Crom- 
well! 

Such  were  Charles  and  Cromwell  in  their  asso- 
ciates.    But  it  is  in  their  inner  life  that  our  con- 
trast appears  most  luminous.    Charles  is  extolled 
by  his  apologists  as  a  saint  and  martyr.    He  was 
not  destitute  of  the  religious  sentiment,  but  it  in- 
clined liiui  rather  to  frivolous  and  superstitious 
observances,    than    to  intelligent   and  spiritual 
worship.     He  even  had   a  zeal  for  religion  in  its 
externals.  He  was,  in  some  respects,  better  fitted 
for  "a  ceremonial   bishop  than   for  a   reigning 
king."      Keligiou  v.  ith   him   was  very  much  an 
accompaniment  and  a  support  of  of  royalty,  and 
on  that  account  he  was  evidently  fascinate. I  with 
Popery.    And  yet,  to  serve  a  purpose,  he  could 
be  a  devout  Presbyterian.     Cromwell  was  a  man 
of  deep  religious  experience.    Religion,  with  him. 
was  no  accidental  thing ;  no  form  nor  ceremony  ; 
it  was  the  life  of  his  soul,  and  the  soul  of  his  life. 
Even  his  traducers  have  been  puzzled  to  account 
for  the    vein  of  piety  which   runs  through  the 
whole  course  of  his  public  acts,  and  which  is  so 
conspicuoiis  in  his  private  character,     'i'hey  have 
resorted  to  the  supposition  that  he  was  a  hypo- 
crite, a  supposition  as  complimentary  to  their  sa- 
gacity as  to  their  knowledge  of  Christian  experi- 
ence.    How  could  hypocrisy  have  sustained  itself 
through  so  long  a  period  in  such  changing  circum- 
stances ?     Even  Satan,  in  the  garb  of  an  angel  of 
light,  conld  not  have  escaped  detection  in  Crom- 
well's place.     And  could  the  strong  men  of  Eng- 
land, her  sober,  praying,  thinking  men,  have  been 
so  long   and   so   thoroughly  duped?     The   true 
standpoint  from  Avhich  to  view  the   character  of 
Cromwell,  is  not  without  but  within  him.     His 
religion  was  not  the  religion  of  a  gentleman,  but 
of  the  man;  not  of  the  court,  but  of  the  heart. 
We  must  enter  into  the  depths  of  his  religious  ex- 
perience.   His  private  correspondence  isas  rich 


46 


TIME    THE    HEALER. 


in  nutriment  to  the  believing  spirit,  as  is  the 
diary  of  Payson  vr  of  Idwards.  His  was  a 
deep,  earnest,  thorough  piety — from  the  period 
of  his  first  evangelical  experience  he  was  "a 
Chrisiian  man,  not  on  Sundays  t-nly,  but  on  all 
days,  in  all  places,  and  in  all  circumstances." 
This  is  the  key-note  of  his  character.  And  here- 
in do  we  find  the  secret  of  his  greatness.  He 
lived  the  life  of  God  ;  from  his  high  place  of  pow- 
er, he  aimed  to  give  religious  liberty  and  the 
word  of  God,  not  only  to  England  but  all  man- 
kind. 

The  religion  of  Cromwell  rendered  him  noble  in 
death.  It  was  fitting  that  the  great  spirit  which 
bad  directed  the  storms  of  civil  revolution,  should 
be  ushered  out  of  the  world  in  a  war  of  the  ele- 
ments, on  the  anniversary  of  its  own  mightiest 
achievements;  but  how  much  more  sublime  the 
view  of  that  spirit  thus  breathing  itself  away  in 
prayer  : — 

"Lord,  tiiough  I  am  a  miserable  and  wretched 
creature,  I  am  in  covenant  with  Thee  through 
grace,  and  I  may,  I  will  come  to  Thee  for  Thy 
people.  Thou  hast  made  me,  tliough  very  un- 
worthy, a  mere  histrument  to  do  them  some  good, 
and  thee  service;  and  many  of  them  have  set  too 
higli  a  value  upon  me,  tliough  others  wish,  and 
would  be  glad  of  my  death:  and,  however  Thou 
dispose  of  me,  continue  and  go  on,  and  do  good 
for  them.  Pardon  thy  foolish  people  !  Forgive 
their  sins  and  do  not  forsake  them,  but  love  and 
ble.ssthem.  Give  them  consistency  of  judgment, 
one  heart,  antl  mutual  love  ;  and  go  on  to  deliver 
them,  and  with  the  work  of  reformation;  and  make 
the  name  of  Ciirist  glorious  in  the  world.  Teach 
those  who  look  too  much  on  thy  instruments,  to  de- 
pend more  upon  thyself.  Pardon  such  as  desire  to 
trample  upon  the  dust  a  poor  worm,  for  they  are 
thy  people  too;  and  pardon  the  fully  of  this  short 
prayer,  and  give  me  rest  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake  ; 
to  whom,  with  Thee  and  Thy  holy  spirit,  be  all 
honor  and  glory,  now  and  forever.     Amen." 

There  is  a  strange  apparition  midway  in  Eng- 


lish history.  We  trace  back  the  line  of  her  so- 
vereigns for  two  hundred  years,  and  are  arrested 
by  a  massive  and  mysterious  being,  who  wears 
no  crown,  but  who  is  a  veritable  king.  We  trace 
the  line  downward  from  the  Norman  Conquest 
and  are  arrested  by  the  same  colossal  form, 
wearing  the  impress  of  royalty,  without  its  title 
or  its  robes.  Bold,  massive,  severe,  it  towers 
above  the  rank  of  monarchs  in  a  dignity  of  its, 
own.  It  is  as  if  the  stream  of  royalty,  flowing 
uninteruptedly  for  ages,  were  suddenly  lost  in  a 
subterranean  abyss,  or  turned  aside  by  a  bold, 
huge  mountain,  to  emerge  again,  ruffled  and  dis- 
colored, in  the  vale  below.  It  is  as  if  a  torrent  of 
fire  had  swept  through  a  verdant  embankment, 
leaving  a  huge,  black,  scarred  chasm  to  mark  its 
course.  Wliat  means  this  chasm,  this  breach, 
this  apparition  ?  \Vhy  is  it  that  Cromwell  thus 
breaks  in  upon  the  line  of  royalty,  with  no  fore- 
runner ;  and  departs,  leaving  no  successor  ?  It  is 
because  God  would  give  the  world  a  conspicuous 
example  of  the  dignity  that  is  in  virtue,  in  char- 
acter, in  man.  The  age  did  not  appreciate  him, 
nor  have  other  ages.  That  strange  figure  has 
been  blackened  and  begrimed  with  dust  and  filth, 
yet  there  it  has  stood  unshaken,  and  there  it  yet 
shall  stand. 

God  has  kept  the  character  of  Cromwell  for 
an  age  in  which  tlie  royalty  there  is  in  man 
should  be  duly  honored.  Koyalty  in  England 
has  been  a  different  thing  since  his  day,  from  what 
it  was  before.  Men's  noses  and  ears  are  worlh 
something  too,  in  England  now.  There  he  stands 
to  frown  upon  usurpation,  to  keep  the  man  ever 
above  the  king,  to  guard  the  consciences  and  the 
liberties  of  England.  Shall  this  man  have  a  sta- 
tue ?  Shall  that  stern,  rough  visage,  in  bronze 
or  marble,  look  down  upon  us  from  a  pedestal  in 
the  royal  park  ?  That  question  is  not  to  be  de- 
cided Ly  a  vote  of  the  British  Parliament,  but  by 
the  greatful  acclamations  of  two  nations,  speak- 
ing tlie  language  of  Milton,  and  honoring  the  re- 
ligion of  Baxter  and  of  Howe. 


TIME    THE    HEALER. 


So  I  liear  them  say, 
And  well  I  know  that  he  iiiny  wake  again 
The  niirry  Viol  li)f  the  li^lillv  liartn'il, 
And  HL'p[t  III  Lethe  the  weak  memories 
Orcommoii  woe.     l!ut  ah  !   for  Iho-e  who  lose 
The  heari'>  chief  jewi'l,  can  he  ^tay  the  tide 
Thai  in  its  wiecking  arrogance  dotii  still 
Lash  the  waste  shore  ! 

Awhile  we  may  forget, 
And  'mid  the  shells  and  grass  flowers  on  the  beach 
l.iill  the  deep  wound,     lint  hark  !  there  comes  s  surge 
Leaving  us  (prostrate.     'Neath  its  surf  we  lie 
Powerless  and  faint,  then  crawling  forth,  essay 
To  do  as  others  do. 


It  comes  again  ! 
Thathlack.  uncrusted,  melamholy  wave  ; 
So,  tell  ine  mil  ihal  Time  liath  power  to  (iHell 
A  desolating  grief.      Ills  opMte  ilraught 
May  serve  to  stupefy,  hui  can  ye  ^llun 
The  (lire  reaction  of  the  spasmed  nerve. 
When  Tliouglit,  in  his  lone  cell,  or  solemn  Night 
Qiiicken  the  grief  pang  1 

'J'lius  'twill  ever  he, 
Despite  their  lame  philosophy,  who  call 
Time  the  l'hy>ieian,  and  lay  hare  their  souls 
'J"o  Ins  [locir  lialin  (hops.     Thus  'twill  ever  be, 
Till  he  delivercth  to  Llernity 
Life's  linish'dvial  with  the  death's  head  seal'd, 
For  the  great  .ludge's  £y«.  L.  H.  S, 


MY    COUNTRY    RESIDENCES. 


B  T      K 


STODDARD 


I  HAVE  often  thought  that  I  should  like  to 
describe  several  couutrj  villages,  endeared  to  me 
by  a  thousand  boyish  recollections,  but  hitherto 
I  have  put  it  off  to  some  more  remote  and  happy 
period.  I  am  just  in  trim  for  it  no-\v,  having 
been  a  rustic  for  a  week.  I  have  a  day  or  two 
to  spare,  and  a  nice  room  to  scribble  in,  so  I  shall 
proceed  to  brighten  up  my  early  reminiscences. 
The  country  ai'oimd  me  will  be  the  best  spell  in 
the  world,  to  conjure  up  the  past. 

I  have  just  laid  down  my  Tennyson,  so  choice 
and  pastoral  in  his  descriptions,  and  sit  carelessly 
by  the   window,   looking  out  on  the  manifold 
leafyness  and  greenness  of  nature.     My  window 
opens  on  a  lawn,  sloping  off  gradually  from  a  row 
of  currant    bushes,    and    the  honeysuckles    and 
morning  glories  that  clamber  up  the  south  side 
of  the  cottage,  to  a  little  plot  which  the  good 
folks  call  an  orchard.     It  is  a  little  plot  indeed, 
for  it  docs  not  contain  over  twenty  trees  ;  but  I 
must  do  those  the  justice  to   say,  that  tliey  are 
decidedly  superb.      Last   summer  the   peaches 
were  the  theme  and  envy  of  the  villagers  for  at 
least  five  miles  around;  a  nine  days'  wonder  in 
the  country.      I  never  saw  or  tasted  anything 
half  so  delicious,  always  excepting  the  blue  misted 
plums  and  apricots,  which  grew  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  orchard,  (I  wish  they  were  ripe  nowl) 
The  strawberries  that  grew  by  the  side  of  the 
wall,  melted  in  my  mouth,  like  wine  drops  trick- 
ling from  the  brim  of  Hebe's  goblet ! — Straw- 
berries and  cream !  the  remembrance  of  it  makes 
me  a  little  melancholy.    What  a  surgy,  wavelike 
noise,  the  willow  makes,  chafing  the  low  eaves, 
half  covered  with  green  moss : — 

"  The  linden  like  a  lover  stanils, 
And  taps  against  my  window  pane  I" — 

About  a  stone's  throw  from  the  house,  at  the 
lower  corner  of  the  orchard,  the  children  are 
busy  picking  (and  of  course  eating)  cherries.  I 
see  them  from  the  window,  standing  uneasily  on 
the  cross  branches,  rocking  and  swaying  about, 
picking  the  dead-ripe,  black-hearted  wild  cher- 
ries. If  there  is  any  one  fruit  ilearer  to  me  than 
the  peach,  it  is  the  cherry  ;  the  tall,  many- 
boughcd,  heavily-loaded  wild  cherry,  bending 
with  its  fullness  of  fruit — 

Certainly  Tom !  You  might  be  sure  of  it ! 
Bring  us  a  couple  of  bunches !  Glorious  Bany 
Cornwall !     I   wish  you  could  see   this   bunch 


which  Tom  ha?  just  brought  me.  Thankee  Tom  ! 
another  if  you  please  1  As  1  was  saying,  Barry, 
it  would  make  your  eyes  sparkle,  and  your 
mouth  water,  mi  boy. 

You  a-sk  lue  wliat  Barry  Cornwall  has  got  to 
do  with  cherries  ?  and  elierries  with  my  country 
residences? 

One  question  at  a  time,  if  you  please.  I'll  tell 
you  about  Barry  first,  and  then  lead  you  gently 
to  the  other  affairs:  only  be  patient ;  I  must  get 
at  everything  in  a  roundabout  way.  Barry 
Cornwall,  you  must  know,  has  written  a  pleasant 
little  lyric  about  the  wild  cherry  tree.  Of  course 
you  have  read  it  Xo  1  my  dear  sir,  or  madam, 
or  miss,  as  the  case  maybe,  I  fear  your  education 
has  Iieen  shockingly  neglected.  I'll  oblige  you 
with  the  poem  in  question  : — 

THE    WILD   f'HKRRY   TRKK. 
Oil  !  there  never  wns  yet  ?o  fair  a  lliinu, 
r.y  racing  river,  or  ImUbling  spring, 
Nothing  that  ever  so  gaily  grew 
T'p  from  the  gronnil,  when  the  skies  were  hlue, 
Nothing  so  brave,  nothing  so  free, 
As  thon,  my  wild,  wilrl  Cherry  tree  I 

Jove  !  how  it  danced  in  the  gusty  breeze  t 
Jove  !  how  it  frolicked  among  the  trees  ! 
Pashing  the  pride  of  the  pnphir  down. 
Stripping  the  lliorn  of  his  hoary  crown  ; 
Oak  or  ash,  what  matter  to  thee  ? 
'Twas  the  same  to  my  wild,  wild  Clierry  tree! 

Never  at  rest,  like  one  that's  yonng, 
Abroad  to  the  world  its  arms  it  flung, 
Shaking  its  bright  and  crowned  head, 
Whilst  I  stole  up  for  its  berries  red  ; 
Beautiful  berries  !  beautiful  tree! 
UnrraTi!  for  the  wild,  wild  Cherry  tree! 

Hack  I  fly  to  the  days  gone  by. 
An{|  see  thy  branches  against  the  sky  ; 
I  see  on  the  grass  thy  blossoms  shed, 
I  see  (nay  I  taste  !)  thy  berries  red. 
And  shont  like  a  tempest,  wild  and  free; 
llnirah  !  for  the  wild,  wild  Cherry  tree! 

"  Hurrah  for  the  wild,  wild  Cherry  Tree !"  Dear 
Barry!  I  shall  never  eat  a  black-heart  without 
thinking  of  you — never !  I  know  you  feci  obliged 
to  me  for  copyi-g  this  little  song.  That's  right, 
oidy  iay  you  like  it,  and  sometime  Til  write  you 
another  critique  on  Barry's  poetry.  Meantime 
lot  me  get  on  with  this  ;  to  do  whioh,  as  I  purposed. 
I  must  finish  describing  the  scenery  around  me 
now.     Beyond  the  orchard,  and  the  boys  shout- 


48 


MY   COUNTRY  RESIDENCES. 


ing  on  the  black  railed  fences,  I  can  see  a  long 
level  of  green  meadow  lands,  with  their  tall 
grasses  bowing  in  the  ever-restless  wind ;  here 
and  there  a  wheat  field,  surging  in  many-colored 
waves,  light  and  dark,  seems  to  roll  onwai-d,  till 
its  course  is  broken  by  the  stone  wall,  which  juts 
above  its  farther  edge  like  a  stout  dyke.  A  field 
of  wheat  with  the  wind  on  it,  is  a  poetical  sight ; 
very  pastoral,  and,  let  me  add,  very  useful. 
■'Think  of  tlils  when  ye're  smoking  tibaecy." 
Here  and  there  a  little  brook,  half  dry,  but  glit- 
tering to  the  last,  runs  along  the  pastures,  and  the 
cattle  go  there,  very  often  this  hot  weather,  to 
drink ; — 

"  The  steer  forgels  to  graze, 
AnJ  wliere  the  heilperow  cuts  the  pathway,  stands 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field, 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows." 

The  landscape  to  the  north  is  rimmed  and 
crowned  by  a  little  wood;  they  would  call  it  a 
forest  in  Europe,  but  we  (we  are  a  great  people  !) 
we,  that  think  nothing  of  the  ten  thousand  miles 
of  western  forest  land,  trackless,  and  uninhabited, 
save  by  wild  bears,  and  a  few  scattered  tribes  of 
Indians,  nearly  as  wild ;  we  are  so  nice  in  our 
expressions,  that  we  call  it  a  clump  of  trees! 
Sherwood  Forest,  Ardennes,  and  the  Hartz  forest, 
would  hardly  be  a  decentish  hunting  ground  in 
America. 

"What  a  beautiful   sight  a  forest  is!     I   have 
i-jaever  read   anything   that   ever   gave   me   the 
slightest  idea  of  what  I  see  now  :   nothing  de- 
scriptive, that  ever  touched  the  subject.      The 
■mimdicB  of  description  might  be  there,  but  the 
feeling,  the  sentiment  that  it  left  upon  the  mind, 
was  absent.     Feelings  are  hard  to  put  in  words. 
Tennyson  and  Keats  are  the  finest  poets  of  senti- 
ment in  the  language :   "  The  Ode  to  Melancholy," 
"  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,"  and  "Autumn,"  by  the 
latter — "The  Gardener's  Daughter,"  ,"Enone," 
"Morte  DArthur,"    "The  Talking  Oak,'"   "Go- 
diva,"  "The  Day  Dream,"  and,  in  fact,  nine  tenths 
of  the  former,  are  perfect  studies  for  the  young 
student,  and  impassioned  lover   of  choice,   fine, 
sensuous  poetry  (Header !    you  are  in  for  a  cri- 
tique on  Keats  and  Tennyson,  when  I  get  time  to 
write  it).     But  talking  of  woods,  reminds  me 
that  I  tried  to  describe  one  myself  the  other  day. 
You  must  know  I  am  writing  a  long  poem,  the 
scene  of  which — but  I  won't  tell  you  another 
word  about  it, — here's  my  wood  : — 

•'  Fast  rooted  in  the  depth  of  fallen  leaves, 
Dark  stemmed,  and  many-limbed,  the  wood  nprears 
The  melancholy  twilight  of  its  boughs. 
Impervioas  at  noonday  to  the  stiii, 
Unpierceable  at  night  by  keenest  moons, 


And  all  the  baffled  stars  that  love  the  s|]Ot, 

Bathed  in  eternal  twilights,  counterchanged 

With  plots  of  light  and  darkness,  everywhere 

Streaky  with  various  verdure,  many  leaved  ; 

Drilled  in  heaps  that  feed  the  vigorous  soil 

And  all  its  blooms,  the  embalmed  yellow  leaves 

Rloalder  with  rich  moist  smells  :  and  where  the  roots 

Uppushing,  shoulder  offtlie  scanty  earth, 

A  sea  of  violets  grow  in  softest  moss, 

Forever  green  :  the  all  surrounding  trunks, 

Pdvery,  or  green,  or  black  with  jagged  barks, 

Are  overgrown  with  mosses  grey  and  dun  ; 

And  half  the  limbs  are  tagged  with  dripping  beards." 

Some  of  my  earliest  recollections  are  of  wood- 
land scenery  ;  but  the  earliest  of  all  (and  this 
leads  me  back  to  my  starting  point)  is  of  a  little 
cottage,  on  the  banks  of  a  river,  or  rather  arm  of 
the  sea,  on  the  eastern  coast  of  Massachusetts. 
Hingham,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  is  one  of  the 
prettiest  towns  in  the  whole  State  ;  and  it  bids 
I  fair  to  become  celebrated  (it  is  already-,  in  geo- 
graphical matters,  famous  for  salt  codfish  and 
woodea  ware).  I  have  no  doubt  that  when  I 
come  to  die,  and  be  buried  in  it  (a  thing,  by  the 
Avay,  I  don't  intend  to  hasten),  it  will  become 
very  famous.  The  late  Frances  S.  Osgood  spent 
her  girlhood  there,  but  that  was  before  my  time 
or  rather  before  I  was  large  enough  to  have  recol- 
lected her.  Gilmore  Simms  wrote  his  "Ata- 
lantes"  there,  and  I  had  the  honor  to  be  brought 
lip  there ;  so  you  see  the  place  is  decidedly 
"  some." 

The  cottage  that  I  remember  so  well,  stands  on 
the  edge  of  a  slope,  with  its  front  to  the  road 
(ci'.rriages  run  within  three  or  four  feet  of  the  door) 
and  its  back  to  the  river;  the  sea  must  have 
flowed,  in  old  limes,  up  its  arm,  where  the  cot- 
tage now  stands.  The  country  aroumi  the  village 
is  full  of  hills,  and  the  road  that  runs  down  to 
the  cove,  seems  to  me  but  an  embankment  on 
the  side  of  one  ;  the  right  side  of  it  is  banked,  or 
rather  dyked  up  with  a  stone  Avail,  about  fifteen 
feet  high ;  below  this,  for  about  twenty  feet, 
level  to  the  edge  of  the  river,  runs  a  little  tract 
of  arable  ground,  which  some  of  the  neighbors 
have  turned  into  gardens.  There  is  a  little  gar- 
den to  the  south  of  the  cottage  (I  think  it  is  the 
south,  but  I  must  confess  my  ignorance  of  every 
cai'dinal — saving  the  cardinal  virtues) ;  the  north 
is  bounded  by  a  carpenter's  shop  ;  the  front  of 
the  cottage  juts  on  the  road,  and  stands  about  ten 
feet  high.  The  back,  down  the  slope,  facing  the 
river,  is  at  least  thirty  feet  high.  It  is  a  very 
odd  looking  and  grotesque  aftiair,  and  seems  to 
have  been  built  at  difierent  times,  either  when  a 
new  crotchet  in  architecture  got  into  the  head  of 
the  original  owner,  or  an  increase  of  family  (for 
they  do,  "increase  and  multiply"  there  in  accord- 


MY    COUNTRY   HESID  ENCES.  " 


49 


ance  with  the  divine  commfind),  rendered  an  en- 
largement of  the  premises  indispensable. 

I  -would  cheerfully  give  ten  years  of  my  com- 
ing life,  to  live  there  as  in  the  old  tinie,  a  child 
again — but  it  cannot  be  : — the  fountain  of  Eternal 
Youth,  that  the  old  Spaniard  souglit  so  long  after, 
has  not  been  found  yet ;  it  only  exists  in  the  Eden 
of  memory  ! 

Heigho  !  I  lay  in  my  cradle,  and  slept  sound- 
ly in  tliat  old  cottage, — angels  watched  over  ray 
slumbers  there,  and  I  heard  in  my  dreams  the 
music  of  the  world  I  had  just  left  ;  a  toy  was  a 
sceptre  to  me,  and  an  orange  was  the  only  world 
I  ever  wept  for  !  I  wore  petticoats  there,  and 
there  I  donned  my  first  pair  of  trowsers.  I  re- 
member the  last  circumstance  well ;  as  it  is  al- 
ways an  epoch  in  juvenile  histories  ;  a  transition, 
as  it  were,  from  the  grub  to  the  butterfly  state  : 
my  early  pants  Avere  nankeens  :  I  am  afraid  now 
that  they  were  rather  too  yellow  to  look  well ; 
but  what  of  that,  nankeens  were  fashionable  (and 
so  cheap!)  I  thought  them  golden  !  My  age  of 
gold  (pants)  had  just  begun.  I  love  to  see  a 
youngster  with  a  new  suit — he  struts  so  much 
like  a  man,  so  heroic,  as  it  were,  and  seems  to 
say,  "See  me,  oh  Earth  1  admire  me,  oh  Hea- 
ven!" He  is  not  a  whit  more  ridiculous — 
though  we  all  laugh  at  him — than  most  chil- 
dren of  a  larger  growth;"  not  indeed  that  a 
new  suit  can  always  turn  their  heads,  but  some- 
thing very  little  better  often  does — wine,  wo- 
man, or  money !  Don't  laugh  at  boys,  if  you 
please  ! 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man." 

I  waa  a  great  reader  in  my  early  life;  I  must 
have  been  taught  the  alphabet  before  I  was  four 
years  of  age.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  can't  de- 
scribe the  fine  old  school  mistress,  that  (never) 
taught  me.  If  you  are  at  all  anxious  to  see  one 
finely  described,  read  Shenstone's,  I  know  of 
notliing  better.  I  am  writing  only  facts,  and 
facts  compel  me  to  admit  that  my  mother  taught 
me  my  ab,  abs.  The  earliest  book  that  I  have 
any  distinct  recollection  of  is  "Watts'  Hymns," — 
I  tliink  tliat  shadowed  out  my  love  of  verses, 
which  was  to  come, — only  I  hated  Dr.  Watts, 
and  his  hymns,  abominably :  I  had  to  learn  one 
very  often ;  but  I  had  my  revenge, — I  used  to 
scratch  the  cover  of  the  book.  After  the  hymns 
of  the  Reverend  Isaac  Watts,  LL.D.,  I  was 
charmed  with  those  little  penny  books  which  the 
blessed  old  Malilon  Day,  of  Pearl  street,  New 
York,  (a  Friend  indeed  !)  used  to  get  out,  for  the 
edification  «f  juveniles.  (This  was  twenty  years 
ago).  The  history  of  Cock  Robin, — Mother 
Goose,  with  that  famous  ditty,  commencing, — 


"  Hey  ding  a  diddle. 
Tlie  cat's  in  the  fiddle"— 

Aladdin,  or  the  Wonderful  Lamp,  and  Robinson 
Crusoe,  formed  the  extent  of  my  early  reading. 
A  few  years  later  introduced  me  to  the  "goodly 
tinker"  the  right  worshipful  John  Bunyan,andhis 
Pilgrim's  Progress.  Everybody  has  praised  Bun- 
yan ;  but  I  always  found  him  severely  pious,  and 
trembled  accordingly.  That  immense  bundle  of 
sin,  on  ])0or  Pilgrim's  back  (a  load  for  any  pack- 
herse) — the  Slough  of  Despond, — the  flaming 
mountain, — the  lions  at  the  gate  of  the  palace 
Beautiful,  (was  it  the  palace  Beautiful  ?) — Apol- 
yon,  Pope,  and  Pagan, — and  all  its  horrors,  fright- 
ened me  so  much  then,  that  I  have  never  read  it 
since.  I  admit  its  wonderful  invention,  but  laugh 
now  at  all  its  terrors. 

The  window  of  my  room  opened  on  the  yard 
and  the  long  garden  to  the  southward  ;  every 
inch  of  ground  in  that  little  yard  has  been 
pattered  over  many  a  time  by  my  infant  feet  ; 
I  used  to  play  in  it — generally  alone — building 
wooden  houses,  or  sailing  chips  on  the  edge  of 
the  river.  I  remember  one  winter  seeing  the 
boys  with  their  sleds,  coasting  down  the  bills 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  water,  which  was 
then  frozen  over,  hard  enough  to  skate  on, — and 
once  (it  must  have  been  the  next  spring)  my 
grandfather  and  I  sailed  over  on  a  cake  of  ice: 
that  was  a  feat  for  me,  for  I  was  always  a  deli- 
cate boy. 

The  road  made  a  curve  a  little  below  the 
house,  and  ran  down  to  tlie  cove ;  I  was  never 
weary  of  wandering  there  when  I  was  large 
enough  to  go  alone;  the  stores  seemed  to  me 
antediluvian, — the  very  Methusalah  of  ;ill  build- 
ings,— rough,  black-boarded  stores,  stained  with 
the  weathers  of  a  century,  at  least.  I  used  to 
mark  one  ship,  painted  over  the  door  of  a  count- 
ing-house,— it  was  the  miniature,  if  you  will  al- 
low  me  the  expression,  of  the  good  brig  Royal 
Arch,  which  sailed  for  Sweden,  and  never  re- 
turned again.  It  was  no  great  wonder  that  I 
used  to  look  at  it,— the  original,  and  a  little  salt 
water,  made  me  fatherless.  There  was  an  old 
elm  above  us,  which  shaded  half  the  road:  I  saw 
it  last  summer,  and  grew  poetical.  I  know  you 
would  like  to  see  what  I  wrote,— so  here  it  is:— 


Tin;    OLD   ELM. 

Where  the  bank  of  the  river  slopes  away, 
And  the  road  runs  down  to  Hingham  bay— 
(A  sheet  of  glass  in  the  sunny  ray,) 

The  Old  Elm  stands, 

With  its  giant  limbs. 
Waving  their  leaves  in  the  ocean  breeze. 
The  pomp  and  pride  of  the  village  trees. 


50 


MY   COUKTRY    RESIDENCES. 


The    trunk  of  the  lofty  Elm  is  dark, 
And  vast  in  girth,  -with  a  wrinkled  bark 
Dappled  ■with  moss  :  the  morning  lark 
And  the  swallow  build 
Their  nests  in  the  boughs ; 
And  the  young  birds  peep  at  the  azure  sky, 
Rocked  in  their  leafy  cradles  high. 

Tvro  hundred  Summers  and  Winters  hoar — 
Two  hundred  years,  and  it  may  be  more, 
Ere  the  Mayflower  brought  the  Pilgrims  o'er, 

A  sapling  small. 

It  stood  i'  th'  heart 
Of  the  Indian  wood,  and  slowly  grew 
In  the  sun,  the  rain,  and  the  falling  dew  I 

The  white  men  came,  and  the  Indians  pass'd, 
Like  withering  leaves  on  an  Autumn  blast ; 
The  glorious  forest  was  felled  at  last, 

And  house  by  house 

The  village  arose  ; 
The  fields  were  cleared — the  road  was  made, 
But  the  Elm  was  spared  for  its  mighty  shade. 

The  village  children,  year  by  year, 
The  little  lads  and  the  lassies  dear. 
Idle  their  leisure  moments  here ; — 

You  can  see  their  swing 

On  the  lowest  branch, 
And  the  tangled  twine  and  the  fluttering  kites, 
Lost  in  the  limbs  by  scampering  wights. 

In  the  sunny  Spring  and  the  frosty  Fall, 
When  the  school-boys  round  are  playing  ball. 
They  run  to  the  edge  (»'  th'  garden  wall, 

(Where  the  peach-tree  stands. 

And  the  currants  grow), 
And  breathless,  sly,  with  a  shout  of  glee, 
Back  to  their  base,  the  glorious  Tree  ! 

And  truants  climb  in  the  emerald  spray, 
Up  to  the  top  where  the  swallows  lay, 
Filching  their  eggs  from  day  to  day. 

They  wave  their  caps 

At  the  screaming  birds. 
And  drop  from  the  breaking  limbs  around, 
Scratched  and  bruised  on  the  stony  ground  1 

When  the  earth  is  bright  with  the  noontide  beam, 
And  the  cattle  stand  in  the  neighboring  stream. 
The  wagoner,  urging  his  loaded  team 

In  a  cloud  of  dust 

To  the  market-down, 
Turns  from  the  road — an  hour  delayed — 
And  rests  his  steed  in  the  grateful  shade. 

Summer  fades  with  its  bloom  and  sheen, 
Sober  Autumn  invests  the  scene  ; 
The  old  Elm  doffs  its  robe  of  green. 

And  stands  in  state, 

Like  a  herald  proud. 
Shedding  the  leaves  from  his  giant  palms, 
Plenty's  bountiful,  lavish  alms  1 — 

Alas!  I  am  like  the  fading  tree, 
I  scatter  my  foliage  fast  and  free. 
Illuminate  leaves  of  Poesy  ! 

A  bountiful  alms 

Of  golden  thought. 
Which  the  feet  of  men    and  the  careless  blast 
Trample  and  sweep  to  the  wasted  Past ! 


I  have  but  little  more  to  remember  of  Hing- 
bam,  save  the  bridge  by  the  mill-dam,  where  1 
used  to  stand,  and  watch  the  long  seaweeds 
drifting  outward,  and  the  old  graveyard  on  the 
hill, — to  my  way  of  thinking,  that  is  a  love  of  a 
burying-ground.  It  is  a  clump  of  little  hills  and 
slopes,  where  the  dead  sleep  with  the  sunshine  on 
their  mounds ;  grave  after  grave  rises  around,  some 
with  white,  recently-raised  head-stones ;  some 
bricked  around  with  old  stones,  flat  on  top  ;  their 
half-effaced  letters,  crests,  and  round-cheeked 
cherubim,  covered  with  the  mosses  of  a  century. 

If  I  remember  rightly,  one  is  dated  "Anno 
Domini  1668."  There  are  a  great  many  ancient 
Taults  there, — but  every  one  of  them  was  wept 
over  in  its  time,  and  held  the  once  warm  heart 
of  man,  or  woman.  Fathers,  mothers,  and  child- 
ren, have  shed  tears  like  dew,  in  this  graveyard. 
and  passed  away,  wept  in  turn,  by  a  later 
generation.  Life  seems  to  me  but  a  great  pil- 
grimage through  the  earth  ;  from  the  gates  of 
Time,  at  one  end,  to  the  gates  of  Eternity  at  the 
other.  Thousands  upon  thousands  are  marching 
onward,  and  have  been  marching  onward  for  ages, 
whither  they  know  not,  only  onward.  Ten 
thousand  drop  off  from  the  great  caravan,  daily 
and  hourly  ;  thousands  stop  for  a  moment  to  be- 
wail them,  as  they  lie  in  the  sand,  but  soon  pass 
onward,  and  are  lost.  ■  The  mass  of  mankind 
have  no  conception  that  the  dreadful  shadow  of 
death  broods  over  them — but  so  it  is ;  a  shadow 
tracks  every  one  of  us;  whether  we  run  or  walk, 
it  is  always  at  our  heels ;  when  we  lift  the  wine 
cup  to  our  lips,  its  smile  grows  pallid  ;  when  we 
love,  it  mocks  us  with  a  feeling  of  our  mortality 
and  comes  over  the  soul  like  a  thunder  cloud ; 
when  we  lie  down  to  sleep,  it  hangs  over  our 
rest ;  but  when  we  sleep  on  our  turfy  couches, 
like  those  iu  this  little  graveyard,  pillowed  on 
rich,  moist,  earth,  the  shadow  tracks  us  no  more. 
It  was  but  the  shadow  of  our  souls  ;  when  our 
souls  have  passed  into  the  land  of  Light,  the 
Shadow  will  melt  to  its  original  nothingness  ! 

"  For  my  single  self,"  I  want  no  better  place 
to  sleep  in,  than  Hingham  graveyard.  The 
earliest  morning  dew  would. 'hake over  my  grave 
its  long  twinkle  of  silver  light ;  the  ^un  would 
kiss  the  hill  with  his  golden  lips  ;  the  Moon  look 
down  from  her  limitless  wandering  in  the  eternal 
blue,  as  tenderly  as  ei'er  she  looked  on  two  young 
lovers,  and  far  more  steadfast,  for  then  her  wax- 
ing and  waning  could  never  make  me  wax  and 
wane,  or  my  warm  heart  grow  cold.  I  often 
think  of  the  revelation  the  ghost  of  Lorenzo 
makes  in  "  Isabella,  or  the  Pot  of  Basil."  Pray 
who  is  Isabella  ?  Sir,  get  your  Keats  and  see  ! — 
also  inquire  who  Baccaccio  was,  for  I  am  deter- 


THE    RIVER    OF    LIF^. 


51 


mined   not  to  tell  you  a  syllable  of  tbe  matter.   ^ 
The    murdered    Lorenzo    comes    back    to   Isa- 
bella,— 

"  In  I  lie  drowsy  gloom, 
Tlie  dall  of  mUnight,  at  her  couch's  foot." 

After  telling  her  hoflr 

"  The  sheepfoM  (ileal. 
Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  his  bed," 

he  exclaims  — 

'*  I  am  a  shadow  noir,  alas!  alas! — 

Upnn  the  skirts  of  hurmn  nature  dwelling. 

Alone  ;  I  chant  alone  the  holtj  mass, 

fVhile  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling  ; 

And  glossy  bfes  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass. 
And  many  a  chnpel  bell  the  hour  is  telling ; 

Paining  me  through.   These  sounds  grow  strange  to  vte^ 

And  thou  art  distitU  in  kumaititij  !' ' 

The  feeling  that  tlie  bees  and  bells  give  one, 
at  noon,  is  wonderfully  soft  and  slumberous  :  lie 
on  a  slope  and  try  it.  I  liope  when  I  have  to  en- 
dure the  c^peration  of  being  buried  (may  I  live  a 
ulitiusand  years  in  this  beautiful  world  !)  I  shall 


have  one  or  two  friends,  who  will  do  me  the  favor 
to  find  me  a  nice,  quiet  spot,  like  this  sweet  little 
graveyard. 

Lounging  in  this  little  graveyard,  on  a  holiday 
last  summer,  I  wrote  the  verses  below,  with 
which  I  will  end  this  paper,  and  my  reminiscences 
of  Hingham. 

The  joyous  towu  before  me  lies, 

Its  colta-ft'S  embowered  in  l)loom  ; 
The  solemn  burylngground  hfliind. 

Its  sepulchres  in  cypress  gloom ! 

The  bells  before  me  ring  aloud, 

A  p;«an  for  the  live  and  bold; 
The  bells  behind  are  tolling  slow, 

A  requiem  for  the  dead  ami  cold  ! 

The  crowds  before  me  tramp  away, 
And  shout  until  the  Heavens  are  stirred  ; 

The  crovifds  behind  me  never  tiiove, 
And  never  breathe,  a  single  word  ! 

A  thousand  troubled  souls  before; 

Behind,  not  even  one  that  grieves  ; 
The  blight  of  wo  that  wastes  the  wheat, 
Cau  never  touch  llie  garnered  sheaves  ! 


THE    RIYEU    OF    LIFE 


B  Y 


HITCHING   S. 


On  through  time  there  rolls  a  liver, 

Fed  with  thought's  eternal  dew 
Rolls  forever,  resting  never, 

Toward  the  perfect  and  the  true  : 
Barriers  broken,  checks  defeated, 

Dartness  scattered,  lets  down  burled, 
Trmh  and  freedom,  firinlier  seated, 

Mark  its  progress  through  the  world. 

Trace  it  to  its  source  ;  it  rose  in 

Darkness  of  abysmal  night, 
Shades  of  error  round  it  elo<ing, 

Pervious  to  no  purer  light  ; 
Shallow  then,  tiut  deepening  ever. 

From  the  glooins  it  burst  its  way  ; 
First  a  streamlet,  then  a  river — 

From  the  darkness  to  the  day. 

Wave  by  wave  for  aye  inere.asing. 

Still  victorious,  still  sublime. 
With  an  impulse  ne%'er  ceasing, 

O'er  the  rocks  and  shoals  of  time  : 
Toward  the  vanward  hurrying  onward, 

From  the  old  unto  the  new — 
Rolls  it  ever,  ie*ling  never. 

Toward  tbe  perfect  and  the  true. 


Woe  to  them  that,  iJly  rearing 

Old  obstructions  in  its  track. 
Taught  by  »ll  (he  past  no  fearing, 

Fain  would  turn  its  current  back! 
They  but  tempt  their  own  undoing  ; 

Like  a  giant  in  its  wrath, 
O'er  their  baniers,  rent  to  ruin, 

It  will  tliurvi'ier  on  ts  path. 

For  it  rolls  resistless -nn ward. 

Deepening,  widening,  on  its  way  ; 
Pressing  strone'ier  toward  the  vanwaid, 

Stronglier  toward  the  perfect  day — 
Lit  with  light  from  heaven,  and  aided 

By  the  earnest  hearts  and  true — 
By  the  soul  to  God  that  made  it. 

Struggling  on  from  old  to  new. 

Sigh  not,  then,  for  the  departed- 
It  hath  passed  and  gone  foraye  ; 

But,  with  impulse  nobler  hearted. 
For  the  Future  clear  the  way. 

Help  to  flow  this  mighty  river. 
Fed  with  thought's  eternal  dew, 

Till  it  merge  at  last  for  ever. 
In  the  perfect  and  tiie  true. 


THE   DESIGN   OF  LIFE, 


The   design  of  Life  ! — alas,  that  it  should  be 
so  little  thought  of !     The  very  words  seem   to 
awaken  a  new  idea,  to  open  up  a  new  vista,  to 
surprise  us  in  a  manner  by   their   unfamiliarity, 
contrasted  with  their  manifest  nearness  to  our  in- 
terests, duty  and  destiny.     They  fall  like  a  re- 
proach upon  our  worldliness  from  an  upper  sphere, 
calling  us  back  from  the  outward  and  the  earthly, 
and  reminding  us  that  there  is  something  better 
and  worthier  than  these.     It  will  be  well  if  such 
shall  be  the  practical  result  of  our  present  medi- 
tation :  such  is  its  aim.     We  would  disown  for  a 
time  the  accidental  and  the  passing — those  tran- 
sient  peculiraities    which   constitute    the   mere 
drapery  of  our  being — that  we  may   the  more 
clearly   and   the   more   calmly  contemplate  the 
great  and  the  universal,  and  that,  by  thus  looking 
at  ourselves  and  our  fellows  in  the  light  of  those 
higher  and  wider  relations  which  have  their  roots 
in  the  soul,  and  which  pass  into  the  infinite,  we 
may  take  the  likeliest  course  for  reconciling  our- 
selves  to  ourselves,  to  one   another,  and  to  the 
world   without,   while  we  shall,  by  the  very  fact 
of  dwelling  upon  them,  be  strengthening  and  sus- 
taining all  that  is   most  gloriously  distinctive  of 
humanity  in  man. 

What  is  our  life  ?  says  an  inspired  wiiter  :  "  It 
is  even  a  vapor  Ihat  appeareth  for  a  little  time, 
and  then  vanisheth  away."  And  yet  this  Yapor 
life  has  for  its  trophies  all  that  is  great  and  im- 
posing in  the  world — temples,  and  cities,  and 
palaces,  and  kingdoms — all  that  is  useful  in 
science,  all  that  is  profound  in  philosophy,  all  that 
is  soothing  in  literature,  all  that  is  great  and  beau- 
tiful in  art ;  and  all  these  have  been  fostered  un- 
der its  wing,  and  are  tlie  footprints  which  it  has 
left  on  the  sands  of  time.  Nay,  but  this  vapor- 
life  is  laden  with  eternity ;  this  meteor  flash, 
every  time  that  it  is  kindled,  lights  an  immortal 
spirit  to  heaven  or  to  hell  :  it  fi.\es  destiny,  it 
determines  a  course  of  endless  progression  up- 
wards among  the  stars,  or  of  endless  sinking  and 
diverLcence  into  a  deeper  gloom  than  brooded 
over  the  primal  chaos.  So  that  the  trial  of  Solo- 
mon was  no  solitary  case.  Life  holds  the  balance 
to  every  man  :  the  good  that  is  passing  and  per- 
ishable in  the  one  scale,  the  wisdom  which  is  all- 
embracing  and  imperishable  in  the  other,  and 
death  steps  in  only  as  the  ratifier  of  the  choice, 


while  eternity   is   the   endless  unfolding  of  the 
fruit. 

What  shall  we  say  then  ?  Was  the  apostle  in 
jest?  Was  he  seeking  to  depreciate  this  great 
seed-time  of  our  existence  ?  Nay,  verily  ;  but 
rather  he  would  rebuke  the  presumption  and  the 
folly  which,  by  refusing  to  connect  it  with  the 
eternity  beyond,  makes  it  the  palace  of  the  body 
indeed,  but  the  prison  of  the  soul,  destined  to 
open  at  a  moment,  they  think,  not  into  the  far- 
sounding  depths  of  ruin  and  despair. 

We  can  perceive  a  threefold  purpose  and  aim 
of  human  life.  First,  we  can  perceive  that  man 
has  much  to  do  with  regard  to  himself  He  is 
not  the  ideal  being  which  some  represent  him- 
There  is  guilt  on  his  conscience,  dimness  in  his 
eye,  and  weakness,  rather  wickedness,  at  his  heart. 
He  discovers  the  ruins  of  a  fair  creation,  but  no- 
thing more  :  "  the  gold  is  become  dim,"  the  tem- 
ple is  dismantled,  and  strange  visitants  within  it 
now  haunt  its  shrine  ;  the  mark  is  upon  him,  and 
his  conscience  might  speak  out  somewhat  in  the 
manner  of  Cain — "It  shall  come  to  pass,  that 
wheresoever  the  doomsman  of  justice  shall  find 
me,  he  shall  kill  me."  The  first  aim  of  his  life, 
then,  has  to  do  with  himself — how  to  b^  rid  of 
this  inward  accuser,  how  to  erase  those  guilt- 
stains  which  "  plague  him  so,"  how  to  find  as- 
surance of  reconciliation  to  his  God,  that  he  may 
hold  up  his  head  in  the  universe,  and  listen  to  His 
voice  speaking  to  him  peace  from  his  awful 
throne.  This  must  be  his  first  and  his  earliest 
aim,  and  in  vain  f<ir  this  are  his  own  sacrifices  or 
gifts.  "  The  world,  by  its  wisdom,  knew  not 
God."  Superstition  may  slay  its  thousands  of 
victims,  idolatry  may  invoke  its  thousands  of 
gods,  science  may  advance  its  thousand  appliances, 
and  self-righteousness  may  "wash  itself  never  so 
clean,"  the  groans  of  humanity  are  still  as  deep, 
its  wounds  as  wide  as  ever  they  were.  The  curse 
is  human,  but  the  cure  is  divine  ;  and  thefirst  aim 
of  our  life  must  be  fulfilled  at  the  cross. 

But  this  is  no  more  than  the  beginning  of  the 
work.  He  has  his  foot  upon  the  rock  now,  which 
alone  can  be  trusted.  He  is  now  within  the  scope 
of  the  great  central  attraction,  and  in  contact 
with  all  that  is  destructive  of  evil,  and  most  in- 
fluential for  good.  Cleaving  to  that,  he  must 
reach  forward  and  upward,  strengthening  his  heart 


THE    DESIGN     OF    LIFE. 


53 


in  all  holy  aflections,  opening  his  mind  to  tlie 
fullness  of  truth,  guarding  his  passions  with  a 
stern  and  uncompromising  denial,  and  building 
himself  up  into  the  likeness  of  Him  whose  tem- 
ple he  is.  He  is  safe  in  his  highest  aspirations 
here  ;  he  has  entered  into  the  only  legitimate 
sphere  for  a  boundless  ambition  ;  and,  with  Christ 
for  his  pattern,  perfection  for  his  aiai,  and  heaven 
for  his  crown,  he  must  gird  himself  for  the  battle 
in  all  the  lowliness  of  dependence,  but  witli  the 
energy  of  despair,  as  knowing  well  that  the  work 
is  great,  that 

"  The  heavens  are  steep,  and  hell  is  deep. 
And  the  gates  of  life  are  hard  to  -win." 

This  must  be  the  first  great  aim  of  our  life — 
individual  emancipation  from  the  guilt  and  the 
tyranny  of  evil.  Nothing  can  be  a  substitute  for 
this:  it  is  the  necessary  condition  of  all  other 
great  and  generous  aims.  We  should  be  found 
but  silly  builders  without  it ;  for,  says  an  apostle, 
"Let  every  man  prove  his  own  work,  and  so  shall 
he  have  rejoicing  in  himself  alone,  and  not  in 
another." 

Looking  at  man,  then,  in  this  isolated  aspect, 
we  say,  that  one  great  design  of  his  life  is  to 
wrestle,  and  rise,  to  be  moving  heavenwards  ever 
—converting  all  things  around  him  into  the 
means  of  his  advancement,  even  his  very  pas- 
sions and  infirmities  into  the  pedestal  of  his  fame 
and  the  ladder  of  his  glory. 

But  then,  after  all,  he  is  not  an  isolated  being: 
he  is  part  of  a  system  wide  as  the  universe,  he 
stands  in  important  relation  to  all  his  fellows,  he 
cannot  disdain  even  the  weakest  and  poorest 
among  them,  but  in  selfishness  and  sin ;  and  here 
looks  forth  another  great  design  of  his  life.  He 
was  formed  to  love,  and  there  is  no  religion  with- 
out it.  There  is  more  than  a  beautiful  sentiment 
in  these  words  of  the  poet ; — 

"  He  prayelli  hest  who  loveth  best, 
All  thing's  botli  yreat  and  small, 
For  the  dear  God  that  loveth  us, 
ll:  made  and  loveth  all." 


If  our  blessed  Redeemer  has  done  no  more  for 
the  world  than  to  bequeatli  it  his  lessons  of  love, 
he  would  have  been  its  greatest  benefactor  still. 
There  is  no  such  enemy  to  its  progress  as  selfish- 
ness, and  tiiere  is  no  demon  so  hard  to  exorcise : 
it  forges  the  manacles  for  tlie  slave,  it  mingles 
the  cup  for  the  drunkard,  it  casts  up  its  gains 
amid  the  ruins  it  has  made,  and,  while  a  brother 
is  bleeding  and  nigh  unto  death,  it  stalks  nimbly 
past  on  the  other  side.  Thanks  to  our  Redeemer 
for  his  every  condemnation  of  this — that,  both  by 
his  lips  and  by  his  life,  he  put  the  brand  of 
Heaven's  displeasure   en  the  selfish,  and  extin- 


guished the  voice  of  that  impious  creed — "Am  I 
my  brother's  keeper  V 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  love  is  a  practical 
thing.     Its   proper  language   is  not  words,   but 
deeds  ;  it  has  pagans  for  the  prosperous,  indeed, 
and  pity  for  the  fallen;  but  it  has  also  food  for 
the  hungry,  raiment  for  the  naked,  and  refuge  for 
the    homeless   and  the   outcast.     "  It   knows  to 
have  compassion  on  the  ignorant,  and   on  them 
that  are  out  of  the  way."     Its  celestial  footprints 
may  be  traced,  not,  perhaps,  to  the  house  of  feast- 
ing and  wassail,  but  to  the  dusky  dwelling  of  the 
mourner,  to  the  edge  of  the  sepulchre  where  the 
tear  drop  glistens  in  its  eye,  to  the  cell  of  the  cul- 
prit, where  the  words  of  wisdom  fall  from  its  lips, 
and  to  the    uttermost   limits  of  this  sin-trodden 
earth,  where  it  makes  the  glad  tidings  of  salva- 
tion  to   ring.     Like  a  jjliaros-light,    it  girds   the 
whole  horizon  of  wo,  and  the  heart  beats  lighter 
in  its  presence,  and  the  eye  looks  less  sorrowful 
at   its  approach.     Nor  does  it  want  scope  for  its 
wing  in  a  world  like  this,  for  the  do.solate  and 
the  fallen  are  everywhere,  the  ignorant  and  the 
fearful,  the  hungry  and  the  homeless  ;  nor  en- 
couragement in  its  work,  for  "  it  is  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive."     It  is  the  high  usury  of 
heaven:   "he that  soweth  bountifully,  shall  reap 
also  bountifully;"  and,  althoughitmaj^  sometimes 
meet  with  ingratitude  and  repulse,  it  is,  uever- 
theless,  the  great   strengthener  of  the   soul,  and 
the  brightener  of  its  way. 

Let  us  see,  then,  that  we  include  this  in  the  de- 
sio'ii  of  our  own  life,  that  we  learn  to  love,  not  in 
word  only,  but  in  deed  and  in  truth,  that  we 
look  forth  with  affection  on  the  great  brotherhood 
of  man,  and  aim  at  their  uplifting,  together  with 
our  own,  to  heaven  and  to  truth.  This  will  be 
living,  indeed — living  anticipatory  of  heaven — 
living  a-ssiiuilative  to  God  ;  "for  God  is  love  ; 
and  he  that  dwelleth  in  love,  dwelleth  in  God, 
and  God  in  Him." 
Tliere  is  one  other  point  on  which  it  is  necessary 
to  touch,  and  it  is  all-important :  it  is  the  zone 
of  the  others,  it  holds  them  together.  Without 
it,  man  woidd  be  as  a  world  without  a  star.  He 
is  foruiod  to  wrestle  and  to  love,  but  he  is  also 
formed  to  worship.  The  moon  passes  round  the 
earth,  but  both  earth  and  moon  pass  around  the 
sun  ;  so  brother  here  luust  minister  to  brother, 
but  all  must  minister  to  God.  Nor  can  they  be 
sustained  in  their  relations  to  each  other,  than  as 
they  adhere  to  their  orbits  in  relation  to  Ilim, 

Worshi[),  then,  not  in  its  cold  and  formal,  but 
in  its  deep  and  spiritual  meaning,  is  the  great  and 
paramount  law  of  the  universe.  It  is  the  sym- 
phony of  the  stars — the  united  voice  of  flxith  and 
love  and  gratitude  aud  wonder,  iu  the  presence 


54 


THE    MOTHER'S    LAMENT. 


of  the  Eternal ;  it  is  the  all  embracing  and  all- 
sustaining  mystery  of  our  being — its  goal  and  its 
glory ;  it  is  wings  to  the  moral  creature  in  his 
contemplation  of  the  Infinite  ;  it  is  the  upward 
attraction  which  loosens  the  cords  of  sense,  and 
makes  the  earth  as  a  spring-board  to  the  young 
spirit,  in  its  bound  towards  the  Ideal  and  the 
Shadowless ;  it  is  written  far  down  in  the  depths 
of  our  nature,  and  we  have  been  aiming  at  it 
evei- — alas,  how  blindly  ! — till  at  length  the  true 
light  shone,  and  the  true  notes  were  sounded, 
over  the  heights  of  Bethlehem.  Even  as  it  is,  we 
are  but  feeble  and  faltering  scholars  ;  our  eye  is 
still  dim,  and  our  heart  still  weak  ;  we  are  "  pro- 
selytes of  the  gate" — worshippers,  if  at  all,  of  the  i 
outermost  circle.  But  we  are  here  to  learn,  and 
our  instructors  are  many — the  heavens  and  the 
earth,  in  all  their  sublime  and  beautiful  forms — 
tlie  sun,  and  the  stars,  and  tlie  flowers,    and  the 


trees,  and  the  waving  corn — the  voices  of  the 
good  and  the  gifted,  now  singing  at  the  fountain, 
but  whose  echoes  linger  among  us  still — the  voice 
of  the  Word,  "which  shall  not  pass  away,"  made 
vital  in  Him  who  labored  on  the  highways,  and 
who  died  npon  the  cross — the  visions  it  depicts, 
the  hopes  it  inspires,  the  prospects  it  unfolds — 
and,  over  and  above  all,  the  far  echoing  music  of 
heaven  itself — 

"  That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concsnt, 
Aye  sung  before  tlie  sapphire  colorM  throne 
To  him  that  sits  thereon." 

We  are  here  to  learn,  ;ind  these  are  our  teach- 
ers. Let  us  listen  to  their  voice — let  us  answer 
to  their  beckonings — let  us  catch  up  the  melody 
of  their  song,  and  . 

"Keep  in  tune  with  heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  His  celestial  concert  us  unite, 
To  live  with  Him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light." 


THE     MOTHER'S     LAMENT 

FROM    A    MANUSCRIPT    POEM. 


BY     THE     LATE     BET 


WALTER     COLTON 


OP     THE     U 


N  A  V  T 


Wy  child,  my  sweet  one  !  speak  to  me 
It  is  thy  mother  calls  to  thee  ; 
She  who  felt  too  deeply  blessed. 
When  thy  iip^  to  hers  were  pressed, 
When  thy  little  arms  were  flung 
Round  this  neck,  where  thou  hast  clung, 
Caressing  and  caressed. 

Thy  infant  step  was  light  as  air. 

As  'mid  the  garden  flowers 
1  watched  thee,  glancing  here  and  there, 

Between  the  April  showers. 
Thy  cherub  cheek  was  sweetly  flushed, 

Thy  locks  the  free  breeze  stirred, 
As,  through  the  vines,  thy  light  form  rushed 

To  reach  the  new  fledged  bird. 

I  saw  thee,  in  my  raptured  dreams, 

Clad  in  the  strength  of  youth  ; 
Thy  path  resplendent  with  the  beams 

Of  honor,  love  and  truth. 
I  thought,  should  he,  whose  noble  worth 

Thy  brow  the  promise  bt-ars. 
Be  summoned  from  our  humble  hearth, 

How  soft  would  flow  thy  cares  I 
How  soft  to  her,  whose  lonely  breast 

Would  then  such  solace  need  ; 
Ilow  sweet  'twonid  be,  1  thought,  to  rest 

On  such  a  gentle  reed. 

Ah,  little  thought  I  then ,  my  child  I 

That  thy  quick,  balmy  breath. 
And  pulses  running  warm  and  wild. 

Would  now  be  chilled  in  death  I 
In  death  ?  Oh  no  I   that  sable  seal 

Disease  can  never  set, 
Where  lip  and  brow  so  much  reveal 

Of  life  that  lingers  yet. 


I  still  shall  feel  that  gushing  joy. 

Which  thrills  a  mother's  breast 
Whene'er  she  clasps  her  bright  eyed  boy 

From  out  his  cradled  rest. 
Come,  meet  thy  moiher's  warm  embrace, 

Return  her  fervid  kiss, 
And  press  thy  sweet  cheek  to  her  face, 

"My  first  born  bud  of  bliss  !" 

Alas,  my  child  !  thy  cheek  is  cold. 

And  yet  thy  forehead  gleams  as  fair 
As  when  those  flaxen  ringlets  rolled 

In  life  and  gladness  there. 
But  then  thy  lips  are  deadly  pale — 

1'hat  were  of  rose  red  hue  ; 
And  thy  long  lashes,  like  a  vail, 

Fall  o'er  those  eyes  of  blue  ! 
Still  round  thy  lip,  where  mine  delays, 
A  smile  in  tender  sweetness  stays — 
The  imaged  transport  of  the  .soul. 
Escaping  from  its  brief  control, 
Yet  leaving,  as  it  passed  away, 
This  smile  of  rapture  on  the  clay, 
To  tell  us,  in  this  trace  of  bliss. 
There  breathes  a  brighter  world  than  this. 

I  feel  reproved  that  thus  I  strove — 
The  errings  of  a  mother's  love — 

To  keep  thee  here,  when  only  given 
To  glance  a  gladness  round  our  hearth, 
And,  all  untouched  by  stain  of  earth, 

Fly  back  again  to  heaven 
'Twere  wrong  in  me,  had   I  the  power, 
To  win  thee  back  the  briefest  hour  ; 
For  guilt  and  grief  are  all  unknown. 
Where  thy  seraphic  soul  hath  flown. 
Be  mine  the  task,  through  faith  and  prayer. 
And  Christ's  dear  love,  to  meet  thee  there. 


^^ 


:^: 


\ 


I 

I 


^ 

•^ 


THE     CHRYSTAL    PALACE. 


(SEE     PLATE.) 


When-,  after  ilie  lapse  of  ages,  the  younj,'  stu- 
dent of  history,  perusing  the  annals  of  his  coun- 
try, •'■lances  at  this  memorable  period  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  he  will  learn  with  astonish- 
ment and  reverence  what  the  resources,  the  inge- 
nuity, and  the  perseverance  of  his  ancestors  ac- 
complished even  in  those  days  of  remote  antiqui- 
'  ty ;  he  will  learn  that,  upon  the  suggestion  of  a 
well-intentioned  and  amiable  prince,  at  the  bid- 
ding of  an  enterprising  and  determined  people, 
animated  by  feelings  of  honest  enthusiasm  and  of 
magnificent  rivalry,  the  creative  armies  of  the 
nation  dauntlessly  challenged  all  the  empires  of 
the  earth  to  a  bloodless  contest,  in  which  victory 
would  confer  wealth  and  honor,  though  defeat 
would  he  unattended  either  by  discomfiture  or 
ruin. 

He  will  not  be  slow  to  perceive  that,  with  one 
universal  acclamation,  one  glad  shout  of  generous 
eagerness,  the  friendly  defiance  was  accepted, 
and  the  war  of  industry  commenced  From  that 
hour  new  energy  appeared  to  have  been  infused 
into  the  mines,  the  laboratories,  the  forges,  the 
looms,  and  the  workshops  of  the  world.  In  the 
most  inaccessible  quarters  of  Thibet  and  the  wild 
regions  of  Oregon,  as  well  as  in  Canada,  the  Bra- 
zds,  Arabia,  Russia,  and  China,  a  spirit  of  indomi- 
table determination  was.  everywhere  evoked, 
and  the  denizens  of  each  realm,  far  distant  as 
well  as  those  of  the  contiguous  Euroj)pan  States, 
pledgeil  themselves  to  engage  unconditionally  in 
an  honorable  strife,  where  there  was  no  foe  to  be 
vanquished,  no  adverse  principle  to  be  over- 
thrown. 

All  having  resolved  to  despatcli  their  several 
detachments  to  tlie  encounter,  it  next  became 
matter  of  paramount  importance  to  select  an  ap- 
propriate battle  field. 

\'arious  localities  were  proposed,  an  infinite 
variety  of  regulations  suggested,  together  with  a 
multitude  of  restrictions  to  be  enforced.  After 
many  an  animated  discussion,  much  long  and 
eager  debate,  those  to  whom  the  deliberation 
upon  these  momentous  preliminaries  was  intrust- 
ed announced  the  place  of  tourney  anil  the  order 
of  the  lists. 

No  existing  edifice  in  those  days  was  there  in 


England  calculated  to  contain  even  a  small  pro- 
portion of  the  combatants,  or  of  the  innumerable 
spectators  who  would  flock  to  the  gorgeous  arena. 
It  became,  therefore,  primarily  necessary  that  a 
structure  calculated  to  shield  all  from  the  incle- 
mencies of  a  northern  summer  should  be  devised 
and  erected.  Premiums  were  oflered  for  the  best 
design,  and,  in  a  short  time,  no  less  than  240 
were  profiFered.  One  hundred  and  eighty  of  these 
were  rejected,  while  from  the  remaining  sixty  it 
was  considered  that  useful  suggestions  could  be 
drawn.  For,  in  consequence  of  the  low  state  of 
architectural  knowledge,  it  was  not  to  be  sup- 
posed that  any  one  professor  of  the  constructive 
art  should  possess  the  skill  required  to  plan  so 
gigantic  and  unprecedented  a  work. 

The  Committee  previously  nominated,  and 
composed  of  the  three  greatest  engineers  and  the 
three  ablest  architects  then  to  be  found  in  the  do- 
minions of  the  Queen  of  England,  availing  them- 
selves of  the  hints  severally  contained  in  the 
threescore  plans  before  them,  proceeded  to  remo" 
del  and  combine  all  that  they  deemed  valuable 
in  each,  in  order  to  devise  one  as  nearly  faultless 
as  the  materials  at  their  disposal  and  their  own 
attainments  enabled  them  to  produce. 

Suffice  it  to  observe  that  the  result,  though  un- 
satisfactory, denoted  great  deliberation  and  care. 
The  combined  skill  of  the  nation  recommended 
thit  in  an  open  place,  then  termed  the  Park  of 
Hyde,  between  tiie  row  denominated  Rotten,  and 
a  road  leading  to  the  suburb  of  Kensington,  in 
the  diocese  of  the  newly-created  Bishop  of  West- 
minster, a  building  should  be  raised,  compounded 
with  solidity  of  stone,  mortar,  and  brick.  It 
was  to  have  been  formed  in  three  separate  di- 
visions, connected  with  side  branches,  the  roof 
supported  by  iron  columnar  water-pipes,  and 
having  in  its  center  a  dome,  larger  than  any  ever 
yet  seen  beneath  the  vault  of  lieaven.  The  la- 
teral walls  were  to  have  been  low  ;  but  eight  ve- 
nerable elm  trees  growing  upon  the  selected  area 
were  to  be  permitted  to  remain  under  the  cupola, 
in  respect  to  a  strong  popular  prejudice  assigning 
particular  virtues  to  these  aged  vegetables,  and 
in  compliance  with  the  wbim  of  a  great  mob- 
orator  of  that  period,  of  t^e  name  of  Sibthorp, 


66 


THE     CHRYSTAL    PALACE. 


■whom  the  Government  were  obliged  to  conciliate. 
Simultaneously  with  the   publication   of  the 
intentions  of  the  Committee,  a  storm  of  disap- 
probation tbrougliout  tlie  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land,   was   observed  to  be   gathering.      At 
length  it  burst,  and  the  fulminant  of  Printing- 
liouse-square  was  not  slow    in  illuminating  the 
dark  horizon  with  the  coruscations  of  its  impo- 
tent disregarded  ire.      Imitated  by  the  still  fee- 
bler exponents  of  j)ublic   opinion,   innumerable 
were  the  invectives  and  incessant  the  denuncia- 
tions hurled  at  the  heads  of  the  originators  of  the 
great  project.     The  diurnal  and  weekly  press  of 
that  era,  indeed,  maybe  referred  to  with  interest 
by  those  who  imagined  that  those  organs  of  power 
really  possess  the  omnipotence  so  frequently  as- 
cribed to  them.     The  dire  prophecies  with  which 
they  teemed,  the  miseries  they  predicted,   the 
rueful  consequences  they  announced,  never  existed 
but  in  the  occiputs  of  the  timid  and  imaginative 
writers  who  penned  them  ;  it  would,  therefore,  be 
still  more  idle  to  cite  them  here.     London,  how- 
ever, for  a  time  was  startled  from  its  dingy  pro- 
priety.    Aristocratic  Marylebone,  stately  West- 
minster, and  heterogeneous  Piralico  abounded  in 
meetings  only  remarkable  for  the  unanimity  with 
which  they  stigmatized,  as  pernicious  and  des- 
tructive, the  very  undertaking  they  afterwards 
hailed  witli  the  most  unqualified  acclamaiion  as 
a  welcome  boon. 

Wisely  disregarding  the  unmeaning  censure  or 
the  needless  laudation   of  the  worlil,  the  Royal 
Commissioners  complacently  proceeded  to  givea 
corporeal  existence  to  the  combined  emanations 
of  so  many  brains  whose  services  had  been  taxed 
in  their  behalf   At  this  particular  juncture,  when 
the  final  edict   had  gone  forth  that  was  to  give 
active    employment   for   months  to  numberless 
brickyards,  quarries,  and  limekilns,  a  brief  com- 
inunication  was  made  to  the  Executive,  the  work 
was  suddenly  stayed,  and    the  hopes  thus  raised 
were  in  a  moment  and  for  ever  frustrated.     The 
communication  in  question  proceeded  from  one 
Joseph  Paxton,  gardener  to  Dr.  Cavendish,  the 
then  Duke  of  Devonshire.     It  appeared  that  the 
said  Joseph  Paxton  had,  for  a  long  series  of  years, 
been  practically  engaged  in  the  formation  of  ha- 
bitations of  iron    and  glass  for  tropical  plaits. 
His  ferrovitreous  experience,  therefore,  enabled 
him,  with  comparatively   little  deliberation,   to 
furnish  working-plans  and  specifications,  superior 
in  every   respect   to   the    combination    already 
agreed  upon.     It  was  consequently  determined 
that  iron,    glass  and   deal,  alone,   should  be  the 
component  materials  of  the  temporary  edifice  in- 
tended to  encase  specimens  of  almost  every  na- 
tural and  artificial  production  of  the  globe. 


In  a  period  of  time,  incredibly  brief,  there  ac- 
cordingly arose  in  air,  a  stupendous  monument  of 
human  ingenuity,  perseverance,  and  skill.  Light, 
translucent,  symmetrical,  and  substantial,  har- 
monious in  proportion,  elegant  in  design — it 
challenged  and  defied  alike  the  criticism  of  the 
astounded  world. 

Never  before  had  anything  resembling  it  been 
beheld,  either  in  material,  form,  or  extent.  Co- 
vering an  expanse  of  eighteen  acres,  and  compris- 
ing some  six-and-twenty  miles  of  gallery,  it  ap- 
peared at  first  impossible  that  it  should  ever  be 
adequately  filled. 

Yet  the  efforts  of  the  ingenious  contriver  to 
combine  every  requisite  did  not  terminate  with 
the  mere  delineation  of  the  external  shell.  The  no- 
velty and  magnitude  of  the  task  imposed  new 
and  arduous  duties  on  the  projector.  Machines, 
for  instance,  were  introduced  to  abridge  the  enor- 
mity of  the  manual  labor  requisite  to  produce  ;  nd 
to  paint  two  hundred  and  five  miles  of  sash-bar; 
other  mechanical  appliances  sawed,  planed,  mor- 
ticed, drilled,  turned  and  glazed,  but  still  moie 
than  two  thousand  artificers  of  all  denominations 
were  actively,  though  silently,  engaged  over 
every  portion  of  the  wide  expanse. 

The  building  consisted  of  a  nave  64  fpet  high 
and  72  feet  in  width,  with  a  series  of  side  aisles, 
six  24  feet,  and  twj  4S  feet  wide,  of  the  respec- 
tive heights  of  23  and  43  feet ;  the  whole  spread- 
ing to  436  feet,  the  entire  length  being  1,S51  feet. 
In  the  center  of  this  long  line  of  frontage,  a  tran- 
sept 100  feet  high,  408  feet  long,  and  12  feet 
wide,  was  seen.  The  whole  was  supported  upon 
1,060  hollow  columns,  serving  at  the  same  time 
as  conduits  for  rain  water.  9u0,000  feet  of  glass, 
weighing  400  tons,  were  employed  to  glaze  the 
various  sashes  ;  the  total  cubic  contents  they 
spanned  being  33,000,000  feet. 

Every  contingency  that  prudence  could  foresee 
was  provided  against.  The  drainage,  ventilation, 
means  for  moderating  the  intensity  of  the  light, 
were  duly  attended  to.  The  flooring  was  laid 
with  interstices  between  each  plank,  allowing  the 
dust  and  water  used  in  cleansing  them,  to  pass 
through  and  disappear.  It  is  needless  to  enter 
here  into  all  the  minuter  details  of  construction  ; 
suffice  it,  therefore,  to  institute  a  brief  compari- 
son on  some  points,  between  the  great  glass  hive 
of  the  Exhibition,  and  an  edifice  of  which  most 
of  .our  readers  have  some  cognizance.  The  main 
avenue  already  described,  was  in  width  nearly 
double  that  of  the  nave  of  St.  Paul's,  and  in 
length  more  than  four  times  as  great.  Thirty- 
five  years  were  spent  in  raising  the  cathedral;  the 
building  in  Hyde  Park  sprang  into  existence  in 
less  than  half  as  many  weeks  !    The  walls  of  the 


THE    CHRYSTAL    PALACE. 


51 


former  pile  ^vere  fouiteen  feet  thick  ;  those  of  the 
latter  eight  inches.  Notwithstanding  the  rapidi- 
ty of  construction,  so  accurate  was  the  workman- 
ship, and  so  careful  the  supervision,  that  not  a 
single  crooked  or  faulty  line  was  discoverable  in 
the  whole. 

"When  the  labors  of  those  whose  thews  and 
sinews  reared  the  giant  fabric  had  ceased,  a  new 
and  unexpected  cause  of  dissension  arose.  Various 
schemes  for  its  internal  and  external  decuration 
were  handed  in.  Some  were  forimjiarting  to  the 
whole  of  the  interior  an  uniform  liue  of  palish 
ocre,  while  they  maintained  that  the  outer  sur- 
face should  either  be  clothed  in  that  shade  of 
brilliant  green  peculiarly  reverenced  by  the  pious 
Mussulman,  or  else  in  the  more  sombre  and  less 
attractive  dun  that  gives  such  delight  to  the  eye 
of  the  enraptured  Quaker. 

On  mature  deliberation,  it  was  determined  not 
to  favor  the  predilections  of  either  sect,  lest  of- 
fence should  have  been  unintentionally  given  to 
other  and  equally  estimable  denominations  of 
religionists.  After  long  and  vehement  debate, 
and  when  all,  or  nearly  all,  that  could  have  been 
said  or  written  upon  the  subject,  had  been  reite- 
rated ad  nauseam,  the  ruling  committee  j)laced 
the  matter  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Owen  Jones,  a 
gentleman  whose  vocation,  studies  and  pursuits 
eminently  qualified  him  for  the  duty  assigned 
to  him.  He  at  once  determined  upon  the  course 
he  intended  to  adopt  ;  and  if  unfettered  by  ab- 
surd restrictions  and  ignorant  suggestions,  better 
still  would  it  have  been  for  the  success  of  his  un- 
dertaking. As  it  was,  the  course  he  pursued 
■was  a  safe  one,  because  the  rules  that  guided 
him  were  theoretically  true,  and  from  the  earliest 
antiquity  had  been  followed  with  signal  suc- 
cess. 

The  thousand  and  odd  columns  within,  together 
with  all  the  infinite  reticulation  and  tracery  they 
upheld,  were  painted,  where  near  the  spectator, 
in  cool,  pleasing,  and  unobtrusive  colors,  so  dis- 
posed that,  as  the  masses  accumulated  in  the 
interminable  vistas  receding  from  the  eye,  the 
effect  at  a  distance  was  to  produce  a  grey  neutral 
tone  harmonizing  with  all  the  gorgeous  profusion 
of  glowing  colors  below  and  around.  Circum- 
stances already  briefly  alluded  to  reduced  the 
period  allowed  for  preparation  to  a  very  limited 
space.  As  the  labors  of  the  Commissioners  and 
the  exertions  of  contractors  became  daily  more 
onerous  and  overwhelming,  so  proportionably 
became  the  demands  of  the  artizan  more  impor- 
tunate, and  his  demeanor  more  independent. 
Here,  as  in  the  generality  of  similar  case«,  self- 
interest  prompted  a  course  of  action  that  justice 
or  honesty  could  hardly  have  approved.      For- 


tunately for  those  more  immediately  concerned, 
as  bands  of  discontended  operatives  struck  and 
dispersed,  others,  in  abundance,  M'ere  found  ready 
to  supply  their  place,  so  that  never  even  for  an 
hour  were  the  works  suspended  inconsequence  of 
the  misconduct  of  the  workmen.  At  length,  about 
the  end  of  March,  1851,  the  undertaking  com- 
menced in  the  previous  September  was  rapidly 
approaching  completion.  All  the  main  diffi- 
culties seemed  to  have  been  overcome.  It  was 
announced  oilicially  that  the  world  would  be  ad- 
mitted to  its  own  museum  on  the  morning  of  the 
1st  of  May.  Exhibitors  labored  day  and  night  to 
terminate  their  preliminary  arrangements.  The 
moustachioed  cabinetmaker  of  Paris,  the  bearded 
carpenter  of  Vienna,  and  the  still  more  hirsute 
moutjik  from  Petersburg,  probably  for  the  first 
time  in  the  annals  of  history,  were  to  be  seen 
toiling  side  by  side,  beneath  the  same  glazed  can- 
opy, each  anxious  to  be  foremost  in  the  zeal  and 
alacrity  they  displayed.  About  this  time,  how- 
ever, new  troubles  and  annoyances  presented 
themselves  to  the  minds  of  the  harassed  and 
over-worked  Commissioners,  It  was  found  that, 
busy  and  rife  as  were  the  human  o[)eratives, 
above,  below,  and  around,  they  were  excelled  in 
numbers  and  pertinacity  by  legions  of  rats  and 
flights  of  sparrows,  apparently  strongly  impressed 
with  the  conviction  that  the  crystal  vault  was 
intended  for  their  special  comfort  and  delectation. 
To  get  rid  of  these  troublesome  and  unexpected 
guests  was  no  light  nor  easy  task ;  and  while 
operations  for  their  discomfiture  and  expulsion 
were  being  j)lanned  and  executed,  fresh  grievances 
appeared.  Ere  the  first  external  coat  of  paint 
could  be  applied,  or  the  panes  of  glass  acci- 
dentally broken  could  be  repaired,  a  London 
spring  had  set  in  with  more  than  ordinary  sever- 
ity. For  several  weeks,  almost  without  inter- 
mission, a  leaden  sky  voided  torrents  of  sooty 
rain  on  the  new  roof,  as  if  to  test  to  the  uttermost 
its  powers  of  resistance  and  the  resources  of  its 
designer.  Its  frailty,  from  a  variety  of  trivial 
causes,  was  soon  rendered  too  apparent;  but  this 
mishap  ceased  in  a  great  measure  witli  the  dis- 
covery of  its  origin.  The  greatest  damage  from 
the  influx  of  water  had  been  occasioned  in  one 
quarter  by  the  malicious  and  dastardly  act  of  a 
laborer,  who  had  wilfully  stopped  up  one  of  the 
rain-water  drains,  and  thus  flooded  a  considerable 
extent  of  the  building  below. 

As  the  interval  allowed  for  the  termination  of 
all  the  preparatory  proceedings  drew  fast  to  a 
close,  the  numbers  and  activity  of  all  engaged 
were  proportionately  augmented.  At  one  period 
in  April,  indeed,  there  could  not  have  been  less 
than  from  nine  to  ten  thousand  men  assiduously 


THE    CHRYSTAL    PALACE. 


engaged.    Poised  upon  the  light  scaffolding  aloft, 
hundreds  of  painters  were  noiselessly  yet  actively 
clotliing  alike  tiie  perpendicular  and  the  horizon- 
tal frame-work  of  tiie   biiildiiig  in  a  varied  and 
cheerful  garb.     Towards  tiie  eastern  extremity, 
stupendous  pieces  of  mechanism,  cast-iron  beams, 
bright  polished  rods  and   wlieels,  and  globes  of 
burnished   brass,  drawn  by  many  horses,  were 
borne  along  on  wagons  and  trucks  to  the  resting- 
place  prepared  for  them,  where  deep  broad  beds 
of  concrete  awaited   their    ponderous   approach. 
By  similar  agencies,  hydraulic  presses  of  unex- 
ampled magnitude,  pumps  upon  novel  principles 
and  of  marvelous  proportions,  brewing  machines, 
organs,  coUossal  statues,  enormous  bells,  monster 
telescopes,  locoaioti  veengines  of  matchless  speed, 
were  in  process  of  conveyance  from  point  to  point, 
amid  the  shouts  of  men,  the  din  of  hammers,  ant! 
the  clangor  of  metal.      Yet,  from  the  midst  of 
all  this  clamor,  bustle,  and  chaos,  here  and  there 
magnificence  and  beauty  were  bursting  their  cere- 
ments and  emerging  into  light.     Towering  forms 
were  daily  seen  to  peer  with  majestic  compos- 
ure upon  the  turmoil  below,  as  if  proud  of  their 
own  existence  and  of  the  imposing  circumstance 
and  character  of  their  appearance.     At  length 
the  preparatory  labor   began  to    diminish,  the 
task  assigned   to   each   individu:d  committee  or 
sub  committee  was  accomplished — in  some  cases 
indifferently,  in  others  happily  and  sitisfactorily- 
Such  might  be  the  history  of  the  great  event 
in  language  such  as  he  may  employ  whose  duty 
it  may  be  to  comment  upon  it  after  the  long 
lapse  of  centuries. 

Let  us  now  hasten  back  on  the  lapse  of  centu- 
ries, and  in-pect  the  result  with  the  eyes  of  men 
of  our  own  day. 

The  long  and  anxiously  anticipated  1st  of  May 
has  arrived!  A  vast  cortege,  composed  of  well- 
appointed  and  costly  equipages,  has  suddenly 
supplanted  the  unwieldly  chain  of  wagons,  trucks 
and  carts  that,  for  weeks  past,  have  all  but  ren- 
dered impassable  the  avenues  and  roads  leading 
to  the  Park.  Tens  of  thousands  of  spectators, 
eager  to  witness  the  cavalcade,  converge  in  dusky 
lines  athwart  the  green  plain  and  along  the  gravel- 
roads.  Entering,  with  tlie  privileged  and  aristo- 
cratic, as  the  portals  are  opened  on  the  above 
momentous  day  at  the  central  southern  gateway, 
our  readers  will,  in  imagination,  behold  before 
them  a  lofty  fountain, 

"  Cliasing  the  sultriness  of  the  day, 
As,  springing  high,  the  silvery  dew 
In  whuls  fantastically  Hew, 
And  Hung  luxurious  coolness  round 
The  air,  and  freshness  o'er  the  ground." 

They  may  now  turn  either  to  the  right,  and  in- 


spect the  gorgeous  contributions  of  India,  or  to  the 
more  quaint,  curious,  but  not  less  ingenious  devi- 
ces from  the  Celestial  Empire,  lavishly  displayed 
upon  the  left.  Among  the  former  are  included 
magnificent  shawls  from  Cashmir,  Persip,  and 
Nepaul,  brilliant  in  colour,  intricate  in  design, 
yet  with  every  tint  so  harmoniously  arrangeel 
and  artistically  contrasted  that  they  may  well 
long  be  dwelt  upon  with  admiration  and  wonder. 
Here,  too,  are  specimens  of  goldsmiths'  work 
that  would  put  to  shame,  for  lightness  and  deli- 
cacy of  execution,  any  of  the  vaunted  jewelry  of 
Europe — gems  that  must  excite  the  astonishment 
and  cupidity  of  many  beholders. 

From  China  the  textile  tissues  of  silk,  the  em- 
broidery, the  elaborate  and  exquisite  caa-viogs  in 
ivory,  in  wood,  and  in  coral,  the  natural  and  arti- 
ficial productions  in  infinite  variety,  have  been 
liberally  supplied. 

Further  on,  we  pause  for  a  while  before  the 
shelves  and  walls  adorned  with  the  productions 
of  Greece  and  the  Levant ;  and  it  must  certainly 
be  admitted  that  the  subjects  of  the  Sultan, 
though  in  some  respects  avowedly  far  behind  the 
rest  of  the  world,  are  in  other  manufactures  in- 
finitely beyond  them.  Italy,  Spain  and  Portu- 
gal demand  no  mean  share  of  our  attention,  next 
arrested  by  Belgium  as  we  pass  by  the  precincts 
of  the  southern  to  those  of  the  north  em  States 
Flanders,  as  Tristram  Shandy  terms  it,  "the 
old  prize-fighting  stage  "  of  Europe,  at  first  sight 
seems  to  have  presented  articles  that  speak  more 
of  the  doings  of  war  tlian  of  commerce  and  peace  ; 
but  her  contributions  and  those  of  the  northern 
continent  of  Europe  are  altogether  eclipsed  by 
the  magnificence,  richness,  and  variety  of  our 
neighbors  the  French. 

The  most  beautiful  porcelain  of  Sevres,  the 
costliest  tapestry  of  the  Gobelins,  the  most  mar- 
velous carpets  from  the  looms  of  Aubusson, 
Parisian  cabinet-work,  marqueterie,  bronzes,  and 
bijouterie,  together  with  the  velvets  and  silks  of 
Lyons,  unsurpassed  in  the  world,  are  crowded 
here.  Even  the  very  fittings  on  which  these 
treasures  are  displayed  themselves  merit  more 
than  a  passing  glance  ere  we  proceed  to  criticise 
the  more  solid  productions  of  Holland.  Con" 
spicuous  among  these  we  find  a  silvery-toned 
chime  of  bells,  candelabra,  vases,  goblets  remark- 
able for  the  taste  with  which  they  have  been 
moulded  and  adorned;  though  in  this  hasty  tour 
we  must  leave  the  minute  consideration  of  them 
to  enter  the  suite  of  spacious  rooms  fitted  up 
with  furniture  from  Vienna  ;  sideboards,  tables 
bookcases,  fauteuils  covered  with  a  profusion  of 
carving,  so  exquisitely  wrought  that  it  may  be 
questioned  whether  Grinling  Gibbon  himself  be 


THE    CHRYSTAL    PALACE. 


not  here  excelled — trophies  of  ponderous  arms, 
foliage  ?o  light  that  it  seems  almost  to  float  upon 
the  air,  heaps  of  autumnal  fruit,  bouquets  of  sum- 
mer flowers,  only  needing  their  appropriate  color 
to  deceive  the  most  practiced  eje. 

But  stay.  In  close  proximity  to  the  vast  octa- 
gonal hall  inclosing  the  emblems  of  the  industry 
of  the  ZoUverein,  her  Majesty  and  the  illustrious 
group  in  attendance  upon  her  are  offering  the 
mute  though  eloquent  tribute  of  their  admiration 
to  a  collossal  lion  of  bronze,  a  mighty  smanation 
from  the  genius  and  foundry  of  Munich.  Never 
before  was  the  truculent  quadrupedal  monarch 
represented  so  truthfully  as  here.  Beneath  the 
dusky  hide,  the  giant  bones  here  and  there  pro- 
trude, clothed  though  they  be  in  other  parts  with 
a  due  proportion  of  brazen  muscle  and  metallic 
sinew.  The  creature's  head  alone  is  a  study. 
The  half-furtive,  half-ferocious  expression  of  the 
eye  and  lip — the  dauntless  brow,  with  the  shaggy 
mass  of  mane  enveloping  the  cranium — the  tre- 
mendous development  of  chest — the  firm  protru- 
sion of  the  mighty  limbs — impart  to  the  whole 
statue  an  air  of  reality  and  I'fe  that  has  rarely- 
been  approached  before. 

In    immediate   contiguity   to  this   formidable 
monster  is  the  representation  of  a  young  lady 
whose  position  not  even  the  most  courageous  can 
envy.     Evidently  not  de-ep'.y  indebted  to  the  mil- 
liner for  her  costume,  or  the  saddler  for  her  ac- 
coutrements, and    mounted,  en  cavalier,  upon  a 
fiery  steed,  the  dauntless  damsel  is  preparing — 
not  witii  a  light  whip  to  remove  a  fly  from  his 
arched  neck,  but — with  comparative  composure 
and  determination,  to  transfix  a  tiger  of  no  ordi- 
nary magnitude,  whose  intentions  to  breakfast 
upon  her  honpe's  shoulder  are  sufficiently  appa- 
rent    It  has  never  been  our  fate  to  witness  a 
similar  incident;  it  might  therefore  savor  of  pre- 
sumption  to   criticise   too    minutely  the    daring 
effort  either  of  the  sculptor  or  of  the  dark  eques- 
trian.    Most  of  our  fidr  readers  and  riders,  how- 
ever determined   their  disposition  or  great  the 
affection  for  their  favorite,  would,  we  opine,  be 
inclined  to  abandon  him    to  his  fate  if  thus  as- 
sailed, rather  than  enter  upon  so  unequal  a  con- 
test. 

Russia  has  had  assigned  to  her  an  extent  of 
space  proportionate  to  her  territorial  immensity 
and  the  perfurmances  of  her  sons  indicate,  on 
their  part,  indomitable  peiseverance,  patience 
and  ingenuity.  Democratic  America,  in  unnatural 
proximity  to  the  possessions  of  the  Czar,  engages 
the  beholder  more  from  the  utilitarian  character 
than  from  the  extraordinary  beauty  and  taste 
displayed  in  her  supplies,  although  she  scarcely 
occupies  her  original  superficial  allotment. 


It  is  stated  that  the  Swiss  have  evinced  the 
greatest  amount  of  mechanical  ingenuity  and 
manual  dexterity.  There  is  a  pen-holder  from 
Geneva,  of  no  more  than  ordinary  dimensions, 
yet  containing  within  its  minute  tubular  concavity 
a  train  of  watchwork,  wound  up  by  a  little  stud  at 
the  side,  and  showing  not  only  the  exact  minute 
and  hour,  but  the  day  of  the  week  and  month. 
A  still  more  complicated  piece  of  machinery  is 
that  contained  in  a  musical-box  in  which  an  en- 
tire military  band,  admirably  modelled  and 
characterised  by  the  most  life  like  movements, 
are  seen  performing  numerous  recent  and  difficult 
specimens  of  modern  music.  A  golden  pocket- 
book,  adorned  with  exquisite  miniature-paintings 
and  landscapes,  incloses,  within  a  very  narrow 
compass,  a  chronometer  and  a  secret  receptacle 
either  for  a  treasured  portrait  or  a  cherished  lock. 
The  varieties,  however,  from  the  several  Cantons 
are  exceedingly  numerous,  and  each  beautiful  of 
its  kind.  Many  days  might  profitably  be  passed 
in  studying  these  Helvetic  works  alone. 

In  the  British  portion  of  the  edifice,  are  to  be 
seen  statues  of  every  dimension;  fountains  even 
more  imposing  than  those  in  Trafalgar  square  ; 
models  upon  a  grand  scale  of  various  public  un- 
dertakings; an  achromatic  telescope  elaborately 
mounted,  with  object  glass  twelve  inches  in  di- 
ameter ;  an  enormous  dome  cast  in  iron  at  Cole- 
brook  Dale ;  endless  varieties  of  silken  tissue  of 
every  hue  and  texture ;  dazzling  arrays  of  the 
cutlery  of  Shefiield,  from   the  heavy  dragoon's 
trenchant-blade  to  the  schoolboy's  pocket-knife ; 
a  pair  of  resplendent  shears,  more  than  a  cubit  in 
length,  with  the   bows   and   shank  richly  orna- 
mented with  a  diversity  of  graceful  patterns,  all 
wrought  out  of  the  cold  metal  by  the  file  alone, 
the  blades  being  also  elaborately  chased  by  the 
graver's  hand.     The  steam-engines,  marine,  buco- 
lic, stationary  and  portable,  the  lathes,  hydraulic- 
presse.s,  gas-generators,  brewing  machines,  pumps, 
and  agricultural  implements,  from  their  number 
and  diversity,  and  the  space  that  even  a  brief 
notice  of  them  would  occupy,  we  are  compelled 
to  pass  without  comment. 

This  great  event  will  mark  a  new  era  in  the 
history  of  mankind.  One  of  the  most  immediate 
and  probable  of  its  eff'ects  is  the  cementation  of 
the  bonds  of  peace.  In  former  times,  ur  in  an- 
other country,  this  remarkable  demonstration 
could  hardly  have  occurred.  The  ordinary  diffi- 
culties and  charges  of  traveling  constituted  of 
themselves,  till  lately,  an  insuperable  impedi- 
ment. The  innumerable  and  impolitic  restric- 
tions, insecurity  of  property,  and  instability  of 
government,  would  amount  almost  to  a  prohibi- 
tion elsewhere  even  now.     It  will  also  be  inter- 


60 


TRUE    GREATNESS, 


esting,  in  a  philosophic  point  of  view,  to  note  the 
consequences  upon  the  different  ranks  and  de- 
nominations of  men.  The  assemblage  will  be 
motely  enough;  their  opinions,  tenets,  views, 
feelings,  religions  as  varied  as  their  complexions 


and  physiognomies,  and  characters.  It  will  be 
hard,  itideed,  if  some  important  end  does  not 
spring  from  the  temporary  yet  peaceful  collision 
into  which  they  will  be  brought. 


TRUE    GREATNESS. 


True  greatness  is  the  offspring  of  real  goodness. 
No  man  can  be  truly  great  without  being  really 
good  Tiie  one  is  inseparably  connected  with  the 
other.  As  the  moon  is  to  the  sun,  so  is  greatness 
to  goodness  ;  each  receives  light  and  beauty  from 
t  he  other.  That  which  is  usually  called  greatness 
we  think  lightly  of,  because  it  is  only  an  empty 
sound.  It  is  generally  associated  with  those 
good,  but  mis  used  words,  power,  glory,  and, 
wealth.  Princes,  heroes,  and  capitalists,  are  its 
representatives  ;  and  the  mean,  the  idle,  and  the 
sordid,  are  its  worshipers-.  We  do  not  deny  that 
many  belonging  to  these  classes  have  possessed 
those  elements  of  greatness  which  are  beginning 
to  be  recognized  and  appreciated  by  society;  but 
we  may  safely  say,  that  tlie  greater  part  of  them 
have  been  strangers  to  them.  How  many  who 
have  sat  on  thrones,  commanded  armies,  and 
possessed  millions  of  money,  have  embodied  in 
•  themselves  every  feature  of  vice  and  wickedness! 
Their  deeds  oppressed  humanity,  and  their  names 
are  a  blot  on  the  page  of  history.  Grecian,  Ro- 
man, and  even  English  history  abounds  witli  in- 
stances of  the  so-called  great,  wiiose  lives  were 
marked  by  the  foulest  crimes,  and  the  filthiest 
conduct.  They  were  a  personification  of  evil, 
patterns  of  folly,  vice,  and  crime  ;  and  their  me- 
mories will  be  loathed  by  the  latest  pos- 
.terity. 

The  standard  by  which  men  have  usually  been 
measured  and  pronounced  great,  is  a  false  one, 
and  we  rejoice  that  it  is  rapidly  coming  into  dis- 
use.     Men  are   beginning  to  be  valued  by  their 


mental  and  moral  worth.  The  riches  of  the  mind 
and  the  wealth  of  the  heart  are  the  principal 
elements  in  that  greatness  which  we  desire  to  see 
universal.  The  peasant  in  his  cottage  may 
possess  more  of  true  greatness  than  the  monarch 
in  his  palace.  Genius  may  inspire  his  mind,  and 
virtue  inflame  his  heart ;  nobility  may  be  impress- 
ed on  his  brow,  and  beauty  beam  in  his  eye  ;  the 
voice  of  praise  may  sound  in  his  ear,  and  the  pen 
of  the  historian  record  his  works  of  faith,  and  la- 
bor of  love  ;  whilst  his  princely  neighbor,  whose 
only  boast  is  of  power,  wealth  and  ancestry,  is  a 
plague-spot  in  creation.  He  can  truly  say,  "  I 
am  creation's  heir ;  the  world — the  world  is  mine !" 
This  is  not  an  imaginary  picture  ;  it  is  exempli- 
fied in  the  lives  of  many  of  our  countrymen.  It 
!j;ives  us  peculiar  pleasure  to  have  to  state,  that 
there  is  also  a  large  class  of  the  noble  and  weal- 
thy who  are  embodying  in  their  lives  the  true 
and  genuine  principle  of  greatness.  They  value 
power  and  wealth  only  in  proportion  as  it  gives 
them  the  means  of  ministering  to  the  happiness 
of  the  poor  and  the  miserable.  Royalty  and  no- 
bility have  condescended  to  associate  with  the 
peasant  and  the  mechanic,  and  to  patronize  the 
humble  efforts  of  the  poor  sons  of  Genius.  These 
are  delightful  signs  of  the  times,  and  they  cannot 
be  over  estimated  ;  class-distinctions,  titles  and 
wealth,  are  all  becoming  insignificant,  even  in  the 
eyes  of  those  who  are  honored  with  them — in 
comparison  with  the  noble  dignity  and  excellence 
of  religious  virtue  and  intellect. 


Clje  Inng  nf  tjir  llaliiii. 


WRITTEN  IJV  J.   K.   CARPKNTER. 


COMPOSKD  BY  UKOUUK    LIN'LEY. 


^-ii-' 


•^ 


1.  0     what  sings  the  Robin,     the        bird   of  the    poor,    As  he     chirps  and  he  flits   round  the 

•  -a    #- 


M^M 


^z^rfi:?— ?-fi=:pi«r#: 


-•—0-m-m —  H 


:*i 


:?:^ 


f*«. — iS-i-  -nS — ■> — 1'*»— 


r-v— -- — r K — 1^ — r 1 — !     r  #  ^       T 


cot    -   ta  -    ger's  door '?      As,         gay     and  con-tent  -  ed,    he         cii  -  rols    his     lay,  Tliese, 


/ 

) 


■^ n-a — 1 1 . 


)|# — ^ f^'—f^—m-m-o- 


-ii^: 


.^i— =; 


u 


1 


-it-,'- 


Ruil. 


In  Tempo*! 


those  are     the      words   that   his        song  seems  to  say :- 


ii 


--i \ ^1 1— "?""—[ N-r  i  -rr-r ^(^»  T.Jgf #11— IZC 


*_.^ 

!-=[- 


-'r^ — •-— f— *— rS# — ■— i— • -^f— J — 


"-•;^' 

'* 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    ROBIN. 


en  -  vy   no  proud  ones  their  cages  of    gold,  My     freedom's  a  jewel  too     i^rized      to  be  sold,  I'm 


s 


«"*_ 
^-»- 


5fc=t 


•*1 


E^Eil 


£ 


F- 


1       ifc.     [^     rs^      Rail.         /^^    ___ 

— I — ^-1 j'^-| ■ ]> — j^-j , ^  r 


humble,  yet  happj',  tho'     poor      I    am  free  !  Then      no  gilded  ca  -  ges,  no        prison  for  me.  And 


te. 


n-"! — r ^— 1  » zz-    p*r^_r~iizziz!Tzi:r 

pz^-z:hzzz5z^^=:^«_^z-^zzzr^z^zz:^#-^tzz:^zzr5— _zl: 


b»_0_  I 

:_-_^^-^^g — M— pH — ^zz^^zzz^ztzz 


i^=^ 


:^«: 


W- 


"Z" 
3i» 


. b»  &_  I . b#_^ 0 

=?=^V=-r?EEEz_Fl^zzz^=- 


:zSzq^:^--^zz:^^-z^Ezz;vzr: 
'zzzdz:izifE2z:^"43Ti, 


?^Z9ZZZ?Z_Z 


^^r. 


f^r^z^zz-ziz>rtf?^:*zz^z|:|: 


thus  sings  the  Robin,  tho      bird  of  the  poor,    As   he       ca-rols  his  song  by  the      cotta-ger  s  door. 


-9 


^•5 — "©— ©  :  O-9-0-& 


--  I 1 I i 1-  -  r—--r 


-0- 
-&- 

-9- 


2. 

The  swallow  in  spring,  builds  his  nest  in  the  eaves, 

But  faithless  his  friendship,  ere  winter  he  leaves ; 

I'm  true  to  my  home,  wheresoe'er  it  may  be. 

Then  may  not  earth's  proud  ones  take  pattern  bj'  me  ? 

I  build  not  my  nest  on  the  tree-top  or  wall, 

For  the  higher  ambition,  the  lower  tlic  fall ; 

In  winter  and  summer  I'm  always  the  same, 

Not  so  with  some  bright-feathered  birds  I  could  name. 

And  thus  sings  the  Eobin,  the  bird  of  the  poor, 

As  he  earols  his  song  by  the  cottager's  door. 


Then  should  wc  not  cherish  the  bird  of  our  youth, 
If  not  for  his  beauty,  still  more  for  his  tnith  ; 
For  his  lessons  of  meekness  and  constancy  blend 
With  feelings  still  dearer  of  home  and  content. 
Then  spurn  not  the  humble  :  the  Robin  may  teach 
A  moral  to  minds  that  no  sermon  can  reach  ; 
They  bid  us  to  cling,  while  hope  points  from  above, 
To  the  scenes  of  our  youth,  and  the  friends  that  we  love 
Oh  !  long  may  the  Robin,  the  bird  of  the  poor, 
Still  carol  his  song  by  the  cottager's  door! 


THE  PURITANS  JUDGED   BY   THEIR  WRITINGS. 


BT      PROF.      PORTER,      TALE 


O  L  L  E  O  E 


As  history  is  ordinarily  written,  it  is  too  often 
a  laudatory  declamation,  setting  forth  the  objects 
of    its    praise    in    high-sounding    periods,    and 
blackening  the  opposing  party  by  as  unqualified 
a  condemnation.    As  -we  pass  from  the  perusal 
of  the  recorder  for  one  party  to  tlie  advocate  of 
the  other,  we  are  embarrassed  by  our  alternating 
confidence  and  distrust.     Too  often  do  we  leave 
the   question   at  issue   entirely  undecided,  and 
perhaps  adopt  the  principle  never  afterwards  to 
give  credit  to  any  historian,  wliatsoever  be  his 
theme.     It  is  true,  the  skillful  student  of  the  past 
can  penetrate  successfully  through  this  over-lying 
mass  of  embarrassing  materials,  and  can  bring  up 
from  beneath  the  whole  the  simple  truth.     His 
practised  eye  can  detect  the  stroke  of  the  paint- 
er's pencil  by  which  this  beauty  is  heightened 
and  that  defect  is  concealed.     He  can  distinguish 
between  the  extravagance  of  the  desperate  and 
determined  adulator,  and  the  warm-hearted  fer- 
vor of  the  honest  chronicler.     Where  testimony  is 
contradictory,  and  strenuous  and  artful  attempts 
are  made  to  illuminate  that  which  is  dark,  and 
to  darken  the  bright,  he  may  satisfy  himself  that 
he  has  indeed  settled  down  upon  the  truth. 

But  the  great  mass  of  reading  men,  even  of 
men  well-informed,  are  not  practised  students  of 
historic  records.  They  have  neither  the  requisite 
interest  in  the  points  at  issue,  nor  have  they  the 
opportunities,  the  time  or  the  patience,  which  are 
required  for  an  independent  weighing  of  oppos- 
ing evidence.  However  honest  may  be  their 
intentions,  and  however  sincere  their  desire  to 
know  the  simple  truth,  they  are  left  almost  en- 
tirely at  the  disposal  of  partisan  liistorians  and 
of  partisan  reviewers. 

Tliat  historian  who  would  gain  a  victory  for 
truth  by  means  which  a  noble  mind  need  not 
scorn  to  employ,  and  a  victory  also  which  will  be 
an  enduring  triumph,  should  present  to  his 
readers  the  men  of  past  days,  as  they  were  when 
they  lived,  and  suflfer  them  to  vindicate  their  own 
fame,  and  achieve  their  own  victories  over  all 
those  men  who  are  honest  enough  to  love  the 
truth. 
To  apply  these  principles  to  the  liistory  of  that 


greatest  strife  of  modern  times,  which  shook  all 
England,  we  need  not  refer  to  Neal  and  Calamy 
on  the  one  side,  ami  compare  them  with  Claren- 
don and  South  on   the   other  ; — but  opening  the 
writing's  of  the  men  who  figured  at  the  head  of 
the  contending  parties,  we  fearlessly  place  Hooker 
and  Cartwright,  the  one  against  the  other.     Let 
us  set  Milton  and  Baxter  and  Howe  over  against 
Hall  and  Taylor  and  South.     We  would  not  ask 
to  record  from  the  testimony  of  any  of  these  men 
a  single  historic  fact,  but  we  would  gather  from 
the  truths  for  which  each  contended,  and  the 
spirit  which  breathes  in  their  writings,  our  final 
estimate  of  the  claims  of  either  to  our  highest 
regard.     From  themselves  would  we  learn,  which 
of  the  tvco  had  more  of  the  truth  in  their  under- 
standings and  more  of  its  spirit  in  their  hearts, 
and  also  which  of  the  two  parties  deserve  most 
liighly  the  esteem  of  the  present  generation. 

Let  the  characteristic  merits  and  excellencies 
of  each  be  compared,  as  they  are  here  displayed, 
and  let  the  claims  of  each  to  our  highest  favor  be 
fairly  adjusted.    The  best  men  on  each  side  pos- 
sessed their   characteristic  and   peculiar  excel- 
lencies, and   they  were  attached   to    their   own 
views,  for  v%-hat  they  deemed   to   be  sutficient 
reasons  and  sound  principles.      These  excellen- 
cies of  character,  these  aims  and  principles,  may 
and  ought  to  be  weighed  in  the  balance  against 
each   other.      It  can  be  decided,  which   be  of 
higher  worth,   the   steadAist    uprightness   with 
wliich  the  one  sought  for  the  simple  truth,  and 
planted  themselves  firmly  upon  whatever  they 
deemed  to  be  an  enduring  principle,  or  the  stead- 
fast aim  of  the  other,  to  bring  matters  of  doctrine 
and  discipline  only  so  near  the  truth  as  might 
"  stand  with  godly  and  christian  wisdom ;'' — which 
bespeaks  the  nobler  mind,  to  believe  that  such 
•wisdom  was  to  be  exemplified  by  yielding  to  the 
inflexible  decree  of  the  occupant  of  the  throne,  or 
to  cherish  the   strong  confidence,  that  truth,  by 
her  innate  energy,  and  witli  aid  from  heaven, 
could,  if  boldly  supported,  force  her  way  in  face 
of  the  arbitrary  Henry,  the  splendid  but  despotic 
Elizabeth,  and  the  vain-glorious  James.     It  can 
be  decided  -who  are  most  to  be  honored  for  this 


64 


THE    PURITANS    JUDGED   BY    THEIR   WRITINGS. 


same  "godly  and  christian  ■wisdom,"  the  men 
who  against  sight  and  hope  committed  their 
cause  to  Him  who  reigns  in  righteousness,  and 
whose  throne  is  girt  about  with  truth,  or  they 
who  deemed  it  the  part  of  wise  men  to  yieLl  to 
the  strong  current  of  temporal  authority,  and  to 
give  place  for  a  time  to  "spiritual  wickedness  in 
high  places." 

The  wisdom  of  the  Puritan  leaders,  in  their 
practical  judgments,  of  what  they  miglit  yield, 
wiih  a  B.ife  and  even  an  enlightened  conscience, 
is  a  point,  in  regard  to  which  their  opponents 
find  it  easiest  to  claim  the  preeminence  for  them- 
selves. The  impression  is  widely  diffused,  that 
they  were  certainly  deluded  men,  even  if  we 
allow  them  to  have  been  honest.  With  the 
homage  of  unfeigned  admiration,  have  we  read 
the  address  of  the  celebrated  Hooker  to  the  non- 
conformists of  his  day,  contained  in  the  Preface  to 
his  work  upon  Ecclesiastical  Polity.  We  have 
asked  ourselves  again  and  again  (with  quite  as 
much  honest  reverence  for  Hooker's  wisdom  and 
worth,  as  those  who  feel  bound  in  conscience  to 
become  Episcopalians  because  Hooker  and  Tay- 
lor were  great  men), — Can  it  be  that  the  man 
who,  in  these  few  pages,  has  given  us  such  an 
amount  of  practical  wisdom,  condensed  as  it  is  in 
the  most  forcible  maxims,  could  have  erred  in  his 
judgment  as  to  which  course  was  that  demanded 
by  christian  wisdom?  We  have  easily  answered 
the  question  of  our  own  asking,  by  laying  out  of 
view  the  high  and  philosophic  eloquence  of  the 
advocate,  and  looking  at  Hooker's  argument. 
Side  by  side  with  his  powerful  sophistry — we 
call  it  sophistry,  as  it  is  the  application  of  the 
wisest  maxims  to  false  hypotheses — we  have 
placed  the  brief  and  simple  argument  of  some 
quaint  Puritan  divine,  and  have  felt  that  the 
latter,  though  of  a  homelier,  was  yet  of  a  wiser 
mind.  Hooker  is  not  the  first  nor  the  last  instance 
of  a  man  of  scholastic  habits  and  much  abstract 
wi.=dom,  who  has  yet  been  greatly  in  fault  in  his 
judgment  of  practical  questions.  "  I  must  ac- 
i;nowledge,"  says  Colerigde,  "with  some  hesita- 
tion, that  I  think  Hooker  has  been  a  little  over- 
credited  for  his  judgment." 

We  find  it  not  at  all  difiicult  to  decide  who 
displayed  tlie  firmest  heroism.  They  certainly 
will  bear  off  the  palm,  whose  sinews  were  as 
steel,  and  whose  hearts  were  as  iron  in  the  con- 
tests with  those  who,  though  bold  for  the  monarch 
whom  tliey  honored  and  the  church  they  loved, 
yet  becau^e  they  relied  on  aid  that  was  seen, 
could  neither  write  nor  battle  as  they  did  who 
had  no  reliance  but  in  their  own  good  cause  and 
unseen  God. 

In  lof;inessof  im.igiiKitien,  tl;ey  stand  r.irpasjed 


by  none,  and  in  the  highest  flights  of  enthusiastic 
ardor, — flights  in  which  some  indeed  soared  so 
high  as  to  break  the  very  pinions  on  which  they 
were  borne  upward.  What  though  Butler  has 
attempted  to  present  to  the  world  the  fervid 
workings  of  their  ardent  enthusiasm  as  the  rank 
and  fermenting  mass  of  crazed  and  Quixotic 
fancies?  What  if  Scott,  though  aiming  to  be 
more  fair,  has  yet  failed  to  be  moved  as  a  poet 
should  have  been,  by  the  high  ardor  of  their 
fervid  spirit  and  the  solemn  fixedness  of  that  faith 
which  torture  and  death  only  provoked  to  a  more 
steadfast  sternness  ?  We  venture  still  to  assert, 
that  no  class  of  men  deserve  more  to  be  admired 
for  the  noble  ideality  of  their  aims  and  the  sublime 
entlmsiasm  of  their  disinterested  souls,  than  the 
non-conforming  divines  and  warriors  of  the  seven- 
teeth  century.  Their  boldness  and  their  ardor 
led  them  into  excess,  but  into  such  excess  as  can 
be  charged  to  great  natures  alone.  Its  fire  is  the 
very  stuff  of  which  poetry  is  made,  and  imper- 
sonated as  it  was  in  the  verse  and  the  more 
poetic  prose  of  Milton,  it  challenges  a  parallel  to 
itself  in  the  history  of  the  word.  What  if  our 
"  amateur  divines,"  and  fastidious  critics,  blush 
for  their  Puritan  parentage  and  descent,  because 
they  did  not  dwell  in  the  haunts  of  the  Muses 
and  sip  at  the  shallow  springs  which  flow  from 
the  fountains  of  Helicon  ?  We  tell  them  what 
they  ought  to  have  felt  for  themselves,  that  the 
Puritans  did  not  write,  because  they  acted,  poems. 
Shame  on  the  men,  who  are  not  "  strongly  at- 
tracted by  the  moral  purity  and  greatness,  and 
that  sanctity  of  civil  and  religious  duty,  with 
which  the  tyranny  of  Charles  the  First  was 
struggled  against." 

"Nor  shall  the  eternal  roll  of  praise  reject 
Those  unconforming  ;  whom  one  rigorous  day 
Drives  from  their  Cures,  a  voluntary  prey 
To  poverty  and  grief,  and  disrespect. 
And  some  to  want — as  if  by  tempest  wrecked 
On  a  wild  coast  ;  how  destitute  1  did  they 
Feel  not  that  conscience  never  can  betray, 
That  peace  of  mind  is  virtue's  sure  effect  ? 
Their  altars  they  forego,  their  homes  ;  they  quit 
Fields  which  they  love,  and  paths  they  daily  trod, 
And  cast  the  future  upon  Providence  ; 
As  men  the  dictate  of  whose  inward  sense 
Outweighs  the  world  j  whom  self-deceiving  wit 
Lures  not  from  what  they  deem  the  cause  of  God." 

We  wish  also  that  with  respect  to  the  faults 
of  the  two  parties,  a  comparison  might  be  insti- 
tuted, and  that  the  question  might  be  decided 
whether  the  party  opposed  to  the  Puritans  were 
not  as  deeply  tinctured  with  those  very  faults 
which  are  charged  to  the  Puritans  alone,  and  for 
which  they  are  so  generally  cast  out  to  reproach. 
Were   they  excessively  scrupulous  ?      Did  they 


THE    PURITANS   JUDGED    BY    THEIR    WRITINGS, 


65 


attach  an  undue  importance  to  matters  of  trivial 
consequence  ?    Doubtless  they  did.    But  let  it  be 
remembered,  that  the  times  were  times  of  ex- 
cessive scrupulosity,  and  that  the  two  opposing 
parties   in   politics   and   religion  ought   alike  to 
receive  tliis  cliargc  from  those  men  of  the  present  | 
da}'  who  seem   to  understand   the  motives  and  | 
conduct  of  neither.     They  were  scrupulous  for  the 
same  reason  that  the  courtier  is  so  nice  in  mat-  I 
ters  of  etiquette,  and  the  duellist  so  precise  in  | 
applying  the  law  of  honor,  because  they  deemed  j 
it  of  importance  to  uphold  or  withstand   great 
principles  even  in  things   which  otlierwise   had 
been  but  trifles  indeed.   The  Puritans  are  laughed 
at  for  their  scruples  about  the  square  cap  and  the 
surplice.      It   is   forgotten,   that    they    did    not 
regard  the  cap  and  the  surplice  as  in  themselves 
of  consequence,  but  in  the  times  in  which  they 
lived,  and  knowing  well  the  influence  of  sucli 
things  over  the   people,  they  refused  them,  as 
relics  of  popery ;  and  it  is  for  no  man  to  condemn 
them,  who  cannot  go  back  into  those  times,  and 
understand  whether  they  were  trifles  then  or  not. 
When  conformity  was   pressed  upon  them,  on 
their  allegiance  to  their  sovereign  and  the  rulers 
of  the  church,  they  resisted  upon  another  princi- 
ple, which  concerned  no  less  a  matter  than  the 
freedom  which  should  be  claimed  b}'  a  man  and 
a  Christian.     They  scrupled  about  "the  habits" 
as  Hampden  did  about  the  ship  money,  and  upon 
the  same  principles  which  roused   the  spirit  of 
our  fathers  against  the  stamp  act.     Let  it  be 
allowed,  that  they  were  too  scrupulous  in  with- 
holding conformity  in  regard  to  trifles.    Elizabeth 
and  Whitgift  were  equally  so  in  enforcing  con- 
formity in  matters  so  trivial,  with  this  difference, 
that  if  the  queen,  witli  the  arch-bishop,  led  tlie 
way  by  making  such   terrible  deinonstraticns  of 
lier  over  nice  fancy,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected 
but  that  her  subjects  should  be  strenuous  even  in 
small  matters,  to  assert  to  themselves  the  liberty 
wherewith  Christ  liad  made  them  free. 

But  the  Puritans  were  certainly  more  narrow- 
minded  tlian  the  defenders  of  the  church.  So  far 
from  this, — as  these  men  appear  to  us  in  their 
writings,  they  were  possessed  of  a  larger  liberal- 
ity in  tlieir  views,  and  a  loftier  elevation  in  their 
sentiments,  than  were  their  opponents.  Both,  it 
is  true,  erred  in  a  too  narrow  and  forced  inter- 
pretatii^n  of  the  Scriptures,  especially  in  relation 
to  the  points  at  issue  in  their  controversy.  The 
Puritans  may  in  this  respect  have  erred  more 
frequently  and  more  fantastically  than  the  writers 
of  the  other  party.  But  we  count  it  the  error  of 
the  nobler  sort,  to  interpret  the  prophets  and  the 
apostles  a  little  too  strictly,  than  first  to  exalt 
the  fathers  to  an  authority  almost   divine,  and 


then  to  subject  them  to  a  constrained  interpreta- 
tion.    An  inherent  vitiosity  in   the  principles  of 
the  defenders  of  the  church,  and  a  tame  cringing 
to  usurped  authority,  under  the  fair  aspect  of  the 
reverence  and  honor  due  to  God's  vicegerents, 
could  not  but  be  seen  in  the  contracting  influence 
whicli   it  exerted  over  the  noblest  minds.     No 
dignity  or  beauty  of  style,  no  general  elevation 
of  philosophic  eloquence,  can  secure  even  the 
noblest  men  who  defended  the  church  against  the 
non-conformists,  from  the  charge  of  being  essen- 
tially narrow  in  their  principles  and  illiberal  in 
their  feelings   towards   those  who  differed  from 
them.     This  give.?  a  dark  shade  to  the  otherwise 
luminous  pages  of  the  noble  Hooker.     This  gives 
to  the  wonderful  Taylor  the  appearance  of  doting 
superstition,  in  what  he  says  of  the  fathers  and 
the  church,  which  the  golden  tissue  of  his  length- 
ened periods  and  the  sweet  music  of  his  heavenly 
aspirations  can  never  wipe  away.     Who  can  con- 
trast the  fervent  affection  and  the  deep  reverence 
with  which  some  of  the  non  conformist  writers 
speak  of  their  dear  mother  the  church  of  England, 
and  the  general  respectwith  which  her  character 
and  fame  is  treated  by  them  all, with  the  excom- 
municatory  fury  with  which   the  gentle  Taylor 
always  speaks  of  the  non  conformists,  and   the 
biting  sarcasm   with  which  they  are  transfixed 
by  the  witty  South,  and  not  decide  at  once  who 
possess-ed  the  nobler  and  more  liberal  souls  ? 

We  are  not  careful  to  assert  the  claims  of  the 
Puritans  to  the  highest  literary  merit.  As  we 
have  already  intimated,  they  had  a  higher  calling 
than  that  of  merely  literary  cultivation.  They 
furnished  the  materials  for  literature  in  their  own 
fervid  souls  and  in  the  stern  conflicts  which  they 
sustained.  They  could  not  stay  to  mould  and 
make  them  permanent,  by  polished  care,  and 
elaborate  w()rkman>hip.  And  yet  to  their  claims 
to  literary  merit,  but  recently,  the  greatest  injus- 
tice has  been  done  by  the  body  of  English  critics. 
We  admit  that  a  greater  number  of  writers  of  an 
inferior  grade,  belonging  to  the  Puritan  party, 
have  survived  till  the  present  time,  than  can  be 
named  upon  the  other  side.  Writers  of  every 
(aade  were  probably  ten  or  a  hundred  fold  more 
numerous  from  among  the  Puritans  than  from 
among  their  opponents  in  the  excitements  of  the 
p.issing  contests  .Many  of  them  are  homely  and 
fantastical  enough,  in  point  of  language  and  of 
thought,  and  so  doubtless,  with  a  few  splendid 
exceptions,  were  the  mass  of  the  devotional  and 
controversial  writers  upon  the  opposite  side. 

There  are  also  splendid  names  in  literature 
from  among  the  Puritans.  There  is  Milton,  and 
Vane,  and  Andrew  Marvel,  and  Baxter,  and 
Bates,  and  Bunyan,  and  Howe.     There  may  be 


66 


THE    SISTERS    OF    BETHANY. 


those  who  profess  to  be  critical  in  matters  of  this 
nature,  who  are  so  entranced  with  the  substantial 
strength  of  the  judicious  Hooker,  that  they  can 
find  no  merit  in  the  surpassing  sublimity  of  the 
noble  Howe.  There  may  be  others  who,  while 
they  delight  in  the  brilliant  acuteness  of  the  witty 
South,  have  no  high  meed  of  praise  to  render  to 
the  fiery  directness  and  the  unrivalled  simplicity 


of  one  Richard  Baxter,  or  who  wander  with 
delight  through  the  endless  mazes  of  Taylor's 
accumulated  richness,  but  who  have  neither  eye 
nor  ear  nor  soul,  to  be  moved  by  the  surprising 
imagery  of  Bunyan.  There  may  be  such  critics. 
We  wish  them  sounder  principles  and  a  more 
catholic  taste. 


THE    SISTERS    OF    BETHANY. 


BY      MARGARET      JUNKIN 


The  fervid  summer  day  drew  near  its  close, 
And  on  the  eastern  slopes  of  Olivet 
Cool  shadov/s  deepened,  while  the  sunshine  lay 
Still  bright  upon  its  summit.     Faint  and  slow. 
With  weary  step  and  garments  travel-stained, 
Trod  Jesus,  followed  by  his  lowly  train, 
The  streets  of  olive-shaded  Bethany. 

He  had  been  often  there.     "When  all  the  day, 

From  the  first  gleam  of  morning  on  the  heights 

Of  Mount  Moriah,  till  the  western  hills 

Were  dim  with  twilight,  he  had  stood  and  taught 

Within  the  temple-porches, — he  would  go. 

When  all  had  left  him  for  their  homes,  and  seek 

Rest  for  his  homeless  head  in  Bethany. 

And  when  returned  from  far  Gennesaret, 

Or  through  the  Gallilean  villages 

That  had  received  him  not, — most  sorrowful 

And  sad  of  brow, — how  often  had  he  there 

Experienced  such  welcome  as  revived 

His  sinking  spirit,  quick  to  every  touch 

Of  sympathetic  love !     For  never  yet 

Breathed  there  humanities  so  exquisite, 

Or  sympathies  so  yearning,  or  a  depth 

Of  tenderness  so  fathomless,  as  throbbed 

Within  the  Saviour's  perfect,  human  soul ! 

And,  most  remembered  visit — he  had  come 
In  answer  to  the  sisters'  sweet  appeal, 
And  at  the  sepulchre  of  Lazarus 
Their  tears  had  flowed  together.     Holy  tears ! 
The  strongest  cement  that  hath  ever  joined 
Heart  unto  heart  in  sacred  union,  such 
As  fiei-y  trials  fail  to  disunite. 


Or  freezing  circumstance  of  time  and  change 
In  vain  would  snap, — or  oversweeping  waves 
Of  intervening  anguish  ebb  and  leave 
Indissoluble  still, — are  the  sweet  tears 
Shed  with  us  in  our  sorrows !     And  if  dear 
Had  been  the  Saviour's  friendship  to  their  souls 
In  their  calm  happiness,  how  more  intense 
Their  sense  of  his  affection  when  they  saw 
Him  weeping  for  them  !    Not  such  touching  proof 
Was  the  high  exercise  of  Godhead's  power, 
That  bade  their  brother  from  the  grave  come 

forth. 
And  turned  their  grief  to  sudden  ecstacy, 
As  these  few,  blessed  tears. 

And  now,  once  more, 
Christ  and  the  twelve  seek  rest  at  Bethany. 
Never  had  Martha  opened  yet  her  door 
To  him  so  joyfully  ;  for  Lazarus, 
Who,  when  he  last  had  come,  lay  a  swathed 

corpse. 
Was  now  the  first  to  greet  him,  with  a  smile 
So  angel-like  on  his  adoring  lips. 
That  to  the  sister's  fond  belief  he  seemed 
Too  holy  for  the  old,  fixmiliar  love 
They  lavished  once  upon  him. 

Martha  flew 
To  testify  her  eager  gratitude 
By  busy  ministrations  to  the  worn 
And  weai'ied  Saviour.     She  was  not  content 
Only  to  lave  his  brow  and  bathe  his  feet. 
And  bring  reviving  wine  and  simple  food. 
As  Mary  did,  and  then  like  Mary  sit 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 


61 


Absorbed, — unwilling  that  an  earthly  care 

Should  rob  her  of  instruction  so  divine ; 

But  with  a  nature  lesser  spiritualized, 

And  with  mistaken  yet  most  earnest  zeal, 

She  sought  to  gratify  with  sick  repast 

His  outward  sense  whose  meat  and  drink  it  was 

To  do  his  Father's  will. 

With  restless  hand 
And  rapid  step  and  a  flushed  countenance, 
She  urged  the  preparations, — passing  oft 
In  her  quick  movements  to  and  fro,  where  sat 
The  loving  Mary  with  her  radiant  face, 
In  its  meek  reverence  so  beautiful. 
Lifted  to  Jesus,  and  her  lips  apart 
In  rapt  attention,  and  her  sweet,  soft  eyes, 
Softer  and  sweeter  for  their  haze  of  tears. 

Chafed  by  her  self-imposed  and  burdening  care, 
And  by  the  mute  reproach  of  Mary's  brow, 
So  calmly  earnest, — and  the  confident  thought, 
That  only  thus  could  honor  due  be  shown 
To  such  a  guest, — she  broke  with  sudden  heat 


Upon  his  teachings :— "  Master,  car'st  thou  not 
My  sister  leaveth  me  to  serve  alone  ? 
Bid  her  that  she  do  help  me!" 

The  rude  word 
Startled  the  listening  Mary  from  her  trance ; 
The  raised  lids  fell,  and  the  light  veil  of  mist 
That  dimmed  the  azure  eyes,  became  a  shower 
Of  falling  tears.— And  had  she  then  indeed. 
While  her  own  soul  had  fed  on  angels'  food. 
Been  too  unmindful  of  the  Master's  need? 
But  when  she  heard  his  meekly  milk  rebuke — 
His   "il/ar</<a—J/rt?V/f a"— breathed  in  tones  of 

such 
Impressive  iteration, — when  she  felt 
His  hand  laid  gently  on  her  low-bowed  head 
And  caught  his  dear  approval,— "Mary  hath 
Chosen  that  better  part  whicli  never  shall 
Be  taken  from  her,"— all  her  doubts  removed ; 
Her  tears  grew  bright  beneath  the  bursting  flood 
Of  full,  soid-sunlight,  and  the  promise  stood, 
A  rainbow  in  the  heaven  of  her  eye ! 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY 


BY      EEV.      HENRY      M.      FIELD 


I  LOVE  to  spend  the  hour  of  twilight  among 
tombs.  The  interval  between  day  and  night  is 
like  the  period  of  transition  between  life  and 
death.  Our  thoughts  glide  insensibly  from  one 
into  the  other. 

The  shadows  of  evening  deepen  as  we  enter 
under  the  arches  of  the  old  Abbey  of  Westmin- 
ster.    Now    I  am    among  the   dead.     My   own 
footfall   on   the  pavements  startles  me  like  a 
sound  from   tlie    sepulchre.     I   steal    along  the 
aisles  with  a  cautious  step,  lest  I  should  wake 
the   sleepers  underneath.     Here  are  England's 
dead.     Here  lie  Kings  and  Queens,  all  silent  in 
their   royal  House  of  Death,  with  their  hands 
folded  on  their  breasts.     What  tales  of  history 
come  back,  as  I  pause  before  the  tombs,  and 
hear  the  guide  say,  "  Elizabeth  !"  "Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots."     What  are  they  all  now  ?  Dust,  dust, 
that  would  be  offensive  to  the  sense,  but  for  the 
crumbling  stone  which  covers  them. 


The  coronetless  race  of  dukes,  and  earls  and 
knights,  that  are  entombed  here,  I  pass  by- 
But  now  come  different  names, — Isaac  Newton 
and  John  Milton.  Tiie  tombstones  of  Fox  and  Pitt 
and  Sheridan  are  imbedded  in  the  pavement  of  the 
church,  so  that  we  literally  walk  over  tlie  graves 
of  these  men  whose  renown  once  filled  the  earth. 
The  epitaphs  are  generally  in  a  strain  of  fulsome 
eulogy.  But  there  are  a  few  which  are  simple  and 
beautiful:—"  0  rare  Ben  Johnson."*  "  Warren 
Hastings— J/cns  aqua  in  arduis."  The  monument 
ofShakspeare  is  a  statue  of  the  poet,  resting 
his  head  on  his  right  liand,  and  pointing  with  his 
left  to  a  scroll,  which  bears  his  own  lines  : — 

"  The  cloiid-capt  lower,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself. 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherits,  shall  di.ssolve, 
And  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision, 
Leave  not  a  wreck  behind." 


*J^'otts  of  a  Late  Traveler. 


THE    WO-PROPHET    OF    JERUSALEM 


A    SACRED   SKETCH. 


BY   METTA   VICTORIA   FULLER 


"  A  VOICE  from  the  east,  a  voice  from  the  west, 
a  voice  from  the  four  winds,  a  voice  against 
Jerusalem  and  the  holy  house,  a  voice  against 
the  bridegrooms  and  the  brides,  and  a  voice 
against  the  whole  people." 

Through  all  the  lanes  of  Jerusalem,  by  day 
and  by  night,  unceasingly,  went  out  that  wild  and 
fearful  denunciation.  With  an  awful  and  pro- 
phetic sound  it  struck  upon  the  hearts  of  the  in- 
habitants. Peace  and  prosperity  reigned  through- 
out the  city ;  yet  did  that  terrible  cry  ring 
through  its  extent — ring,  ring,  ring,  at  every  gate, 
in  every  narrow  street,  from  every  side — even  as 
in  the  bright  afternoon  the  dark  shadow  prognos- 
ticates the  coming  of  night ! 

The  denunciator  was  a  man  singular  of  aspect 
and  of  tone.  His  uncovered  hair  was  long  and 
stiff  and  black,  streaked  with  white,  hanging  in 
disorder  over  his  broad  pale  brows,  shaggy  and 
lowering.  His  eyes  were  dark  and  sunken,  and 
so  unnaturally  bright  and  so  wildly  melancholy 
that  none  met  their  glance  without  a  shudder; 
his  cheeks  were  sallow  and  hollow  ;  his  form  was 
short  and  gaunt.  Ever  and  ever  for  months  and 
years  his  deep,  unearthly  voice  rang  out,  filled 
with  that  terrible  burden. 

He  went  not  into  any  house — he  spoke  not  to 
any  living  creature.  They  took  him  and  cruelly 
scourged  him — they  lashed  him  till  the  white 
bones  gleamed  out  from  the  bloody  flesh ! — he 
had  but  one  reply  to  their  torture  of  the  whip — 

"  Wo — wo  to  Jerusalem  !" 

Some  gave  food  to  the  fanatic ;  and  his  burning 
eyes  filled  them  with  terror  as  they  did  so  ;   but 
he  gave  them  no  thanks — he  took  the  meat  from 
their   extended   hands  and   turned   from    them, 
screaming  with  his  wild  lips — 
"  Wo — wo  to  Jerusalem  !" 
Some  beat  him  and  stoned  him  and  spit  upon 
him — but  he  gave  back  no  reproaches ;  still  the 
same  mournful,  thrilling,  unearthly  cry  of — 
'•  Wo — wo  to  Jerusalem  !" 
And  v\'hile  he  still  uttered  his  melancholy  pro- 
phecy, the  wo  did  indeed  come   upon  the  holy 


city.  Even  while  they  scoffed  at  him  and  bruised 
him,  their  hearts  were  made  to  quake  and  trem- 
ble beneath  the  gleam  of  the  fiery  sword  burning 
in  the  heavens  above — to  shudder  at  the  red  eyes 
of  the  comet  looking  down  upon  their  doom — to 
turn  faint-hearted  at  the  silent  opening  of  the 
great  gate  of  the  Temple. 

Ay !  the  desolation  and  the  wo  came  upon 
them  ! — in  horrors  and  terrors  it  came  upon  them. 
The  air  was  wild  with  the  moans  and  groans, 
the  shrieks  and  the  wailing  of  sufferers — it  was 
dark  and  polluted  with  the  effluvia  of  festering 
corses — sharp  with  the  rattle  and  clash  of  arms- 
It  was  a  desolation  such  as  never  before  came 
upon  a  city — a  wo  so  long  protracted  and  so  full 
of  agonies !  Famished  men  strove  to  lift  their 
swords,  and  failing  for  want  of  strength,  fell  upon 
them  and  died ;  and  the  last  sound  in  their  ears 
was — 

"  Wo — wo — wo !" 

Rising  above  the  howl  of  ravenous  dogs,  that 
startling  cry  would  reach  the  ear  of  the  hapless 
maiden  perishing  for  want  of  food,  and  as  her 
dim  eyes  closed  in  death,  that  sound  would  re- 
call her  wandering  soul  to  a  thought  of  the  hap- 
piness and  the  pride  that  was  hers  when  first 
that  lament  chilled  her  blood,  as  she  leaned  her 
young  hand  on  the  bosom  of  a  lover  now  rotting 
by  the  city  walls.  In  the  silent  midnight,  with 
the  windows  darkened  to  conceal  to  those  with- 
out the  light  in  the  beautiful  apartment,  a  mother 
would  take  the  dagger,  all  the  gems  in  the  handle 
of  which  would  not  buy  her  a  meal,  and  without 
a  quiver  of  the  shrunken  hand,  once  so  delicate 
and  soft,  plunge  it  in  the  throat  of  the  infant 
wailing  in  her  arms.  Then,  as  she  laid  the  flesh 
of  her  own  flesh  on  the  golden  dish  and  tore  it 
with  her  maddened  teeth,  the  scream  of  the  man 
filled  with  this  divine  fury  smote  upon  her  reck- 
less ear — 

"  Wo — wo  to  Jerusalem  !" 

And  after  the  warning  voice  was  stilled,  the 
desolation  went  on  towards  the  completion.  It 
came  upon  the  daughters  of  Jerusalem  and  upon 


EVENING   NEAR   A   GREAT    CITY. 


69 


her  sons — it  came  upon  the  streets  and  the 
palaces  and  the  gardens — it  came  upon  the 
Temple ! 

It  came  upon  the  Temple  !  and  ah  !  what  a 
ruin  -was  that — wl.at  a  wo  was  that !  What  a 
mighty  affliction!  What  a  scene  was  that  when 
the  Temple  was  destroyed!  Fire-surging,  shud- 
dering waves  of  fire,  rolling  and  seething — up, 
around,  above,  about,  over,  the  magnificent  build- 
ing !  Fire  over  the  cloisters— around  the  pil- 
lars— over  the  glittering  golden  front — within  the 
sanctuary — above  the  tiles  ! — fire  !'  fire  ! — red, 
angry,  darting,  fierce,  irresistible  fire  ! — tongues 
of  fire  licking  up  the  shining  melted  gold — hands 
of  fire  tearing  down  the  polished  marble — 
streams  of  fire  flowing  over  the  roof — tigers  of 
fire  springing  up  to  the  pinnacle  ! — a  hill  of  fire — 
an  ocean  of  fire — an  ocean  of  fire  and  blood ! 

What  a  clamor  was  that!  what  a  lamenta- 
tion— what  a  tumult — what  a  dire  distress — 
■what  an  overthrow ! 

That  was  indeed  the  madness  of  tumult. 
Where  ever  before  upon  earth  mingled  such  a 
sea  of  sounds  ?  The  shouts  of  the  Roman  myri- 
ads— the  wailing,  the  shrieking  of  the  despairing 
populace — the  sharp  groans  of  the  wounded — the 
awful  curses  of  anger — the  terrible  outcry  of  all 
passions — the  moans  of  all  suffering — the  clangor 
of  arms — the  crash  of  falling  walls — the  fearful 
shrieks  of  the  hundreds  perishing  in  the  flames ! — 
all  these  sounds,  and  innumerably  many  more, 
mingled  and  blent  with  the   one  awful,  surging, 


maddening  roar  of  the  conflagration !  The 
mountains  near  about  echoed  back  the  loud  con- 
fusion of  sounds,  like  deep,  denouncing  thunders  ! 
The  air  was  rent  to  pieces  !  up,  up  from  the 
fated  city  rolled  the  wild  clamor  to  the  skies, 
groaning  to  the  God  of  Heaven  its  burden  of — 

Wo  !  wo !  wo  to  Jerusalem  ! 

The  forebodings  which  shadowed  the  solemn 
minds  of  the  prophets  had  become  reality ;  the 
destiny  of  the  holy  city,  foretold  and  forefelt. 
was  fulfilled.  When  Christ  mourned  for  Jerusa- 
lem, there  was  a  mournful  radiance  over  all  its 
streets  and  palaces,  a  glitter  over  all  its  foun- 
tains, the  beautiful  dome  was  hovering  in  a  golden 
cloud  about  it,  ready  to  swoop  from  its  crimson 
and  purple-pillared  resting-place,  to  dwell  for 
ever  in  the  holy  city  and  the  temple.  But  none 
of  the  million  hearts  below  yearned  for  it  or 
beckoned  it  down  from  its  high  abode  of  sunset 
magnificence,  and  it  flew  away  forever  from  that 
spot,  through  the  falling  of  the  twilight  gloom. 
It  flew  away  for  ever,  and  went  to  the  lonely 
mountains,  the  dark  caverns,  the  fearful  arenas, 
the  torturing  stakes,  the  damp  prisons  where 
Christians  suffered  and  triumphed.  It  sweetened 
the  rays  stealing  up  from  secret  caves  ;  it  beauti- 
fied each  solemn  meeting  of  the  faithful  with  its 
radiance.  Its  rich  song  gladdened  men's  hearts 
to  rapture  as  they  knelt  in  prayer — soothed  the 
widow's  sorrow  and  the  maiden's  tears,  and  led 
a  persecuted  band  to  glory.  Beautiful  and  bles- 
sed dome ! 


EVENING    NEAR    A    GREAT    CITY. 


In  a  sweet  sommer's  eve,  when  the  snn  was  declining, 
I  stray'd  forlli  alone  through  the  grass-cover'd  fields; 

Thonih  my  spirit  was  sad,  yet  it  felt  nofepinincr ; 
'Twas  only  the  mosing  which  solitnde  yields. 

Overcome  by  the  spell  that  was  breathing  through  natare, 

I  calmly  sat  down  t'  inhale  its  repo'^e  ; 
At  my  side  grew  an  oak-of  magnificent  statnre. 

And  round  me  there  bloom'd  the  wild  thorn  and  the  rose. 

What  a  picture  of  peace  in  the  qniet  feeding  cattle  ! 

How  soft  and  snhdned  is  the  song  of  the  lark  ! 
Scarce  a  word  can  he  heard  of  the  boys'  wearied  prattle, 

As  homeward  they  wend  ere  the  falling  of  dark. 

Rut  far  (iffto  ihe  east,  with  its  smokp-clouil  o'erhanging, 
The  city  has  stretcli'd,  as  if  silent  in  death  ; 

Surely  there  is  a  lesson  that  needs  no  haranguing — 
It  weighs  on  the  sool  till  it  stifles  the  breath . 


There  the  thousands  of  men  from  all  countries  assemble. 
To  toil  for  a  jiittance,  to  grasp  after  gain  : 

Life  is  urged  to  a  speed  that  may  well  make  us  tremble — 
The  hotbed  of  passion,  and  sorrow,  and  pain. 

Ah  I  'tis  easy  for  those  who  are  villaloilied  magnates 
To  talk  of  the  beauty  and  wealth  of  the  town  ; 

But  'tis  there  (he  deep  ce«spi)ol  of  misery  sta^'nates. 
And  all  the  worst  seeils  of  corruption  are  grown. 

If  we  knew  the  sad  tale  of  the  spirits  who  languish  . 

While  toiling  Mkc  slaves  in  yon  close  huddled  cells. 
It  would  wring  from  the  heart  an  expression  of  anguish — 

Great  towns  are  a  curse  ;   they  are  prisons  and  hells. 

Lord  !  have  mercy  on  man  ;  he  is  wretchedly  dying  ; 

Send  light  from  above  ;   let  him  breathe  ihy  free  grace  : 
Christian,  run  to  the  bed  where  thy  brother  is  lying, 

What  joy  might  he  feel  io  thy  loving  embrace  ! 


MORE    PRECIOUS    THAN    RUBIES 


BY      MRS.      M 


DOUBLEDAT, 


As  I  glanced  over  the  paper  of  the  day,  my 
eye  fell  upon  the  paragraph,  "  Died,  deeply  re- 
gretted, Mrs.  ,  the  wife  of  the  Honorable 


Death  happeneth  to  all ;  and  the  announcement 
of  the  death  of  one  numbered  among  our  dearer 
friends  seldom  stirs  the  deeper  fountains  of  feel- 
ing. Strange  and  sorrowful  is  it,  too,  to  find  that 
the  ties  of  friendship  are  so  slight,  that  we  feel  so 
little  when  the  rude  hand  of  death  disperses 
them.  A  passing  sigh,  a  transient  sadness,  is  the 
costliest  tribute  paid  to  those  who  have  been 
truly  loved,  to  whom  our  souls  Avere  once  bound  ; 
and  the  burst  of  a  deeper  feeling  would  bring  the 
charge  of  a  sickly  sentiment,  or  of  an  ostenta- 
tious display,  to  which  a  plain,  practical  business 
man  would  not  be  apt  to  expose  liirnself. 

Why,  then,  did  such  a  deep  emotion  oppress 
and  almost  overpower  me  as  I  read  the  announce- 
ment above — the  slight  notice  of  the  passing 
away  of  one  scr.rcely  known  for  the  last  twenty 
years — of  one  who  had  never  recognized  any  other 
relation  than  that  of  a  passing  acquaintanceship 
between  us?  Yet  well  might  I  ponder  an  event 
which  recalled  the  memory  of  her  who  had  ex- 
erted, albeit  however  unconsciously,  an  influence 
all-powerful  upon  my  character  and  upon  my 
destiny.  Did  she,  who  had  now  passed  away 
from  earth,  ever  suspect  how  much  she  had  been 
to  rae  ?  Could  she  have  known  what  hours  of 
bitter  agony,  what  months  of  conflict  and  suflir- 
ing,  what  years  of  toil  and  trial  she  had  inflicted 
upon  me? 

Did  she  ever  imagine  how  many  were  the 
obligations  she  had  laid  upon  me?  Could  she 
estimate  the  deep  debt  of  gratitude  I  owed  one, 
whose  influence  had  raised  me  above  the  gross- 
ness  of  sense,  the  pursuits  of  the  mere  worldling, 
or,  perchance,  from  a  deeper  degradation,  into 
the  purer  atmosphere  of  refinement,  of  taste,  of 
intellectual  enjoyment,  until  I  attained  the  higher 
elevation  of  the  Christian  hope  and  faith  ? 

No;  she  who  had  now  entered  another  sphere, 
surely,  while  she  sojourned  here,  had  never  known 
that  her  influence  had  moulded  my  character  and 
decided  my  destiny.     Slie  had  never,  in  all  rea- 


son, dreamed  that  she  influenced  my  lot  for  weal  or 
wo.  How  could  she  have  even  imagined  all  she 
had  been  to  me,  all  she  had  wrought  for  me? 
Her  orbit  had  crossed  my  path  ;  but  her  sphere 
was  distinct,  apart,  separate  from  mine.  Her 
love  had  blessed  another  man ;  she  had  shed  the 
light  of  her  virtue  around  his  dwelling ;  her 
children  had  been  taken  to  Ijis  arms.  Not  mine 
had  been  the  privilege  of  witnessing  the  constant 
flow  of  all  the  graces  in  her  daily  life — not  mine 
the  sad  blessedness  of  ministering  to  her  in  her 
hours  of  languor,  of  disease,  of  decay,  of  support- 
ing her  in  the  last  parting  agony. 

By  all  the  presumption  of  common  usage,  by 
all  the  meaning  of  common  observation,  I  had  no 
rights,  no  claims — I  was  nothing  to  her ;  and  she, 
what  was  she  to  me?  what  was  her  death  to 
me — to  me,  to  whom  she  had  been  dead  for  these 
twenty  years?  It  did  not  affect  me  personally; 
if  it  darkened  my  hours,  it  cast  no  shadow  over 
my  dwelling ;  it  did  not  affect  my  business,  my 
prospects ;  it  did  not  change  the  employments  of 
an  hour.  It  was  only  one  of  the  many  voices,  faint, 
unheeded,  proclaiming  the  great  law.  Death  hath 
passed  upon  all,  for  all  have  sinned.  And  yet  I 
had  an  interest  in  her;  and  there  were  tlie  ties 
which  bound  me  to  her — strong  though  invisible ; 
and  of  the  many  who  wept  and  bewailed  her,  I, 
perhaps,  loved  her  most  of  all.  Yet  my  obliga- 
tions to  her  arose  not  from  what  she  was  to  me, 
but  from  what  she  was  in  herself;  and  I  must 
say  what  I  was,  before  I  can  tell  all  that  she  be- 
came to  me,  and  what  she  made  me. 

I  had  never  known  the  refinements,  the  luxu- 
ries of  life ;  and  to  attain  an  education,  and  a  legal 
profession,  I  had  foregone  its  necessaries.  I  was 
finishing  my  law  course  in  tlie  office  of  Judge 
S ,  a  man  of  high  standing  and  legal  attain- 
ment. I  recall  mj'self  as  I  then  was,  with  a 
strong  will,  an  energetic  purpose,  a  full  conscious- 
ness of  mental  power,  a  proud  self-reliance,  and 
a  determination  to  force  myself  to  that  favorable 
spot  upon  the  strand  of  fortune  wliere  the  tide 
sliould  be  sure  to  find  me,  and  taking  me  up, 
lead  me  onward  to  fame,  and  wealth,  and  honor. 
Those  who,  having  passed  their  earlier  days  in 


"MORE   PRECIOUS   TIIAX    RUBIES, 


•71 


bonJage,  and  penury,  and  ignorance,  after  placed 
in  circumstances  favorable  to  their  intellectual 
progress,  often  make  a  rapid  improvement. 
Many  such  there  are.  Strong-minded,  able  men 
they  become;  but,  perhaps,  at  their  first  outset 
in  their  new  life,  they  are  as  remarkable  for  their 
self-conceit  as  for  their  progress :  their  knowledge 
does  not  seem  to  be  woven  into  the  warp  and 
woof  of  their  minds  ;  it  ratlier  seems  to  hang 
about  them,  than  to  be  incorporated  into  or  to  be 
a  part  of  them ;  there  is  an  incongruity  in  the 
whole  character,  and  thus  it  was  with  me.  I 
was  ill  at  ease,  not  at  home  even  with  myself — 
proud,  boisterous  fond  of  disputation,  contempt- 
uous of  all  those  whom  1  fancied  deemed  them- 
selves my  superiors ;  yet  timid,  shy,  bashful, 
trembling,  before  those  I  despised. 

Painfullj-  conscious  of  my  ignorance  of  the  con- 
ventionalities of  polished  life,  I  dreaded  the 
drawing-room,  and  eagerly  escaped  the  proflered 
civilities  which  would  draw  me  within  its  pre- 
cincts. 

It  was,  therefore,  an  accident  which  first 
brought  me  within  the   family  circle  of  Judge 

S .     Once  brought  under  the  influence  of  Mrs. 

S ,  it  was  not  possible  to  escape  the  charm  and 

fascination  of  her  manner.  I  had  never  before 
met  a  woman  so  highly  polished.  I  have  never 
since  known  many  who  have  equalled  her  in 
grace,  dignity,  and  amenity  of  manners.  To 
much  knowledge  of  the  world  she  united  a  fine 
and  cultivated  mind ;  and  that  perfect  good 
breeding  which  made  all  at  ease  around  her,  was 
the  result  of  a  long  intercourse  with  the  polished 
and  refined,  united  to  a  tact  which  enabled  her  to 
penetrate,  by  intuition,  the  tastes  and  characters, 
to  atlapt  herself  to  those  she  addressed ;  while 
the  purest  benevolence,  guided  by  high  principle, 
led  her  to  seek  to  promote  their  happiness. 

I  am  surely  voluntarily  laying  open  the  wounds 
long  since  healed;  yet  I  find  the  spot  tender;  it 
shrinks  from  the  touch ;  and  1  am  dwelling  upon 
the  virtues  of  the  mother  the  longer,  that  I  dread 
to  recall  all  the  attractions  of  the  daughter. 

When  I  first  met  Bessie  S ,  I  saw  only  a 

fine,  pale,  delicate  girl,  gentle  and  retiring.  I 
had  heard  much  of  her  beauty,  and  the  first  im- 
pression disappointed  mo.  I  thouglit  her  defi- 
cient in  animation,  and  lacking  in  energ}-.  I  pre- 
ferred more  bloom;  atid  in  the  exceeding  sim- 
plicity of  her  dress  I  missed  the  gay  colors 
I  deemed  so  appropriate  and  becoming  to  youth 
and  beauty.  Gradually  I  was  awakened  to  the 
full  perception  of  her  loveliness,  for  she  was  ex- 
ceedingl}-  lovely.  It  was  not  the  rich  glow 
which  Iiealtli,  rude  and  high,  gives.  Her  beauty 
did  not  make  you  think  of  tlie  rich,  spicy  fra- 


grance of  the  pink  ;  neither  was  it  the  sweet, 
dewy  breath  of  the  rose. 

She  was  beautifiil~but  she  was  even  more 
elegant  than  beautiful — the  highest  charms  of 
refinement  were  imparted  to  the  rarest  style  of 
female  loveliness.  She  was  as  tall,  as  queenly, 
as  pure,  as  polished,  as  the  white  lily ;  and  her 
tastes  and  character  were  all  in  accordance  with 
her  style  of  manner  and  of  beauty.  Even  her 
dress  indicated  the  prevailing  tone  of  her  mind, 
and  her  chosen  colors  were  all  subdued,  delicate 
— the  faintest  rose,  the  pale  straw — while  the 
rich  dark  braids  of  her  magnificent  hair  contrasted 
with  her  pure  pale  brow,  and  the  long  dark  lashes 
veiled  her  deep  blue  eyes. 

She  had  been  educated  as  well  as  accompdish- 
ed.  Her  mind  had  been  stimulated,  and  her  pow- 
ers cultivated.  She  loved  to  read,  altliough  she 
played  and  played  well ;  and  she  could  converse 
as  well  as  sing — and  over  all  was  the  surpassing 
charm  of  the  highest  feminine  grace  and  refine- 
ment. I  found  that  I  loved  her !  A  deeper  feel- 
ing than  that  which  arose  from  my  conscious  de- 
ficiencies sent  the  blood  to  my  cheeks,  and  stilled 
the  pulsations  of  my  heart. 

Gradually  I  had  been  becoming  more  at  ease 
in  the  mother's  parlor,  her  fiither's  society,  and 
less  so  in  the  daughter's  presence.  I  had  never 
been  so  happy.  I  was  in  a  pleasant  dream,  and 
she  was  still  with  me — a  softer  atmosphere  en- 
veloped me,  and  life  lay  in  brighter  colors  before 
me.  A  light  word  or  little  jest  awoke  me.  I 
knew  that  I  loved  her,  and  I  knew  that  she  did 
not  love  me.  And  could  she  ever  love  me?  Not 
as  I  then  was — but  as  I  might  be ;  and  I  did  what 
few  men  have  ever  done — I  sat  down  to  an  esti- 
mate of  myself,  my  prospects,  my  character,  and 
the  probability  of  winning  the  heart  and  of 
securing  the  hand  of  the  woman  I  chose. 

I  knew  my  capacity.  I  neither  underrated  nor 
overrated  my  powers  and  my  attainments,  and  I 
knew  that  before  me  there  lay  every  prospect  of 
the  attainment  of  wealth  and  honor.  I  had  re- 
ceived such  tokens  of  the  good- will  of  the  goddess 
of  fortune,  fickle  as  she  may  be  called,  that  I  be- 
lieved that  I  might  rely,  if  I  did  not  presume,  upon 
them  ;  and  1  knew  that  I  could  soon  offer  Miss 

all  the  elegancies  to  which  she  had  been 

accustomed.  Would  she  marry  me  ?  Could  she 
ever  so  like  as  to  gladly  accept  me  ?  I  did  not 
in  any  hour  ever  imagine  that  she  could  love  me 
as  I  loved  her.  Such  a  deep,  absorbing  passion 
would  be  a  violence — a  variance  to  the  gentle, 
quiet  propriety  of  her  nature.  But  could  she  like 
me  so  much  as  to  f)refer  me  to  all  others — to  be 
happy  with  me,  and  make  the  happiness  of  my 
life? 


72 


"MORE    PRECIOUS   THAN    RUBIES." 


Hooked  at  myself— I  had  despised  and  neglect- 
ed all  the  minor  proprieties  of  life,  regarding  all 
attention  to  dress  and  appearances  as  only  worthy 
of  the  coxcomb;  loosely  and  slovenly  dressed — 
lips  and  teeth  stained  by  the  use  of  the  national 
weed — clothes  ill-chosen,  ill-made,  ill-fitting — 
with  dull  and  dusty  boot,  and  browned  and  un- 
gloved hand ;  and  I  smiled  at  the  incongruity,  as 
I  thought,   of  such  an  apparition  claiming  the 

elegant  Bessie  S ,  and  of  right  drawing  her 

small  French-gloved  hand  under  his  arm.  I  felt 
that  I  must  be  a  different  man,  before  I  sought 
her  hand.  I  know  better  now  than  I  did  then, 
how  much  the  discordance  of  habit  and  feelins, 
in  the  minor  points,  affects  the  happiness  of  do- 
mestic life — how  deeply  the  want  of  that  refine- 
ment is  felt,  which  is  only  appreciated  by  those 
who  possess  it.  But  I  then  knew  that  I  was  de- 
ficient in  taste,  in  refinement,  in  general  culti- 
vation. I  knew  that  I  was  awkward,  uncouth ; 
that  I  had  neither  the  air  nor  bearing  of  a  gentle- 
man. I  Iiad  gloried  in  this  deficiency;  now  I 
regretted  it. 

I  did  not  fear  to  argue  before  any  judge,  to  ad- 
dress any  jury,  to  harangue  any  crowd;  but  I 
was  nervous,  uneasy,  timid,  blundering,  in  the 
drawing-room  and  at  the  dinner-table.  I  knev/ 
that  I  needed  the  cultivation  of  general  and  of 
good  society.  I  knew  that  there  could  be  no  sud- 
den metamorpho.sis;  a  dancing-master  might 
make  me  a  fop — he  could  not  transform  me  into 
a  gentleman. 

I  had  shunned  society,  haughtily  repelling  the 
civilities  of  the  aristocrats  around  me.  I  had 
condemned  many  of  its  usages  as  inconsistent 
with  the  great  law  of  equality.  I  had  argued 
loud  and  fiercely  for  the  abolition  of  all  distinc- 
tions, save  those  of  mind;  because  I  argued  that 
all  crime  resulted  from  ignorance.  I  did  not 
intend  to  be  recreant  to  my  principles,  but  I  as- 
suredly changed  my  habits — I  sought  the  circles 
I  had  shunned. 

My  passion  had  awakened  feelings,  and  brought 
me  more  into  unison  with  the  world  of  taste  and 
imagination.  It  had  imparted  to  me  a  new  sense 
of  beauty,  and  I  soon  found  an  increasing  pleasure 
and  a  higher  enjoyment  in  the  cultivation  of  these 
tastes  and  faculties,  which  I  at  first  sought  only  as 
assimilating  to  Miss  S . 

And  I  did  improve.  I  was  conscious  of  a 
change.  I  knew  that  I  was  a  different  man.  I 
knew  that  new  sources  of  pleasure,  new  fields  of 
enjoyment,  opened  to  me.     I  thought  there  was 

more  of  unison  between  myself  and  Miss  S . 

I  read  her  favorite  authors,  and  ventured  to 
recommend  mine  to  her.  I  spent  many  pleasant 
hours  with  the  mother  and  the  daughter.     I  could 


not  leave  my  business,  but  it  soon  after  drew  me 
to  large  cities,  and  I  gladly  accepted  any  oppor- 
tunity of  mingling  in  society,  and  of  profiting  by 
a  general  intercourse  with  those  who  give  the 
tone  to  manners. 

I  had  all  a  lover's  fears ;  but  I  specially,  too, 
had  a  lover's  hopes.  Her  very  position,  her  high 
respectability,  her  own  dignity  and  sense  of  pro- 
priety, prevented  her  from  having  many  danglers  ; 
and,  as  admired  as  she  was,  I  yet  had  no  cause 
for  definite  fears  or  personal  jealousy.  Still,  I 
did  not  venture  to  propose — not  yet.  Her  evi- 
dent unconsciousness  of  my  passion  disheartened 
me — intimidated  me — and  mv  reason  told  me  it 
would  be  unwise  to  make  a  declaration  which 
might  destroy  all  my  hopes  ;  while  I  was  striv- 
ing each  day  to  become  more  acceptable  to  her. 
Was  she  utterly  unconscious  of  all  my  devoted- 
ness,  of  all  my  deep,  absorbing  passion  ?  She 
seemed  so  courteous,  gentle,  dignified — always 
just  what  a  lady  should  be — T  almost  cursed,  at 
times,  that  gentle  reserve  with  which  she  en- 
trenched herself,  and  which  formed  a  magic 
circle,  repelling  each  vain  intruder.  Yet  I  would 
not  that  she  should  have  departed  from  it.  I 
worshiped  her  as  a  goddess  enshrined.  Had  she 
come  down  from  her  altar  to  listen  to  me,  the 
loss  of  reverence  might  have  diminished  the  love. 
There  was  much  reverence  mingled  with  my 
love — there  always  is  in  a  first  passion.  At  this 
period  I  lived  two  lives — one  a  dreary  life  of  sen- 
timent, of  romantic  passion,  of  feeling,  of  imagin- 
ation; the  other  a  life  true  and  real,  of  hard 
study,  unremitted  toil,  of  the  eager  pursuit  of 
wealth,  of  honor,  of  profit.  But  the  coloring  of 
the  one  state  fell  upon  the  other ;  and  the  hours 
of  business,  dingy  and  dusty,  were  tinged  with 
hues  of  the  rose — the  sun-light  of  hope  and  fancy. 

She  married  another.  She  had  never  refused 
me  :  I  had  never  presumed  to  offer  myself.  The 
shock  was  great ;  my  very  reason  reeled  and  tot- 
tered under  it.  There  were  times  when  my  feel- 
ings seemed  paralyzed,  and  all  peace  of  thought 
lost.  Then  I  suffered  as  I  hope  few  others  have 
done  ;  but  tlie  very  certainty  which  brought 
despair,  enforced  a  desperate  calmness.  Time 
brought  its  alleviation.  The  previous  discipline 
to  which  I  had  subjected  myself  aided  me  now. 
I  felt  that  all  motive  for  exertion  was  taken  from 
me.  Immersed  in  business,  I  forced  myself  to 
meet  all  its  claims.  I  found,  too,  a  benefit  re- 
sulting from  the  years  of  toil  and  probation  to 
which  I  had  subjected  myself,  although  the  great 
ultimate  object  had  filled.  I  had  acquired  pa- 
tience, self-control ;  and  I  now  subdued  and  hushed 
feelings  which  once  would  have  maddened  me. 

1  he  storm  past :  if  my  fairest  hope  was  blight- 


"MORE   PRECIOUS   THAN    RUBIES." 


73 


ed,  it  had  not  uprooted  all  else.  I  had  acquired 
tastes,  feelings,  and  habits,  which  Avere  still 
sources  of  enjoyment.  For  awhile  I  sought  soci- 
ety, and  flew  from  myself;  but  I  had  associated 
too  much  with  one  highly  cultivated  and  truly 
refined,  to  turn  to  the  low,  the  coarse,  and  the 
mere  trifling.  The  tastes  which  I  had  sought  to 
develope,  that  I  might  assimilate  to  her,  I  now 
cherished,  tiuit  1  might  find  in  them  a  compen- 
sation for  her  loss.  It  was  not  until  many  years 
after  that  I  was  aware  of  the  great  and  abiding 
influence  she  had  exerted  over  me. 

And  it  was  then,  as  I  was  led  to  think  of  the 
influence  which  one  child  of  clay — imperfect,  fal- 
lible— can  exert  over  another  ;  of  the  effort  which 
I  had  made  to  assimilate  to  one  who  sought  no 
assimilation,  that  I  was  led  to  feel  the  beauty  of 
that  character,  spotless  and  perfect,  presented  for 
our  model,  and  the  tenderness  of  the  Son  of  God, 
who  ever  presents  the  love  which  he  hath  borne 
to  his  people,  as  among  tlie  highest  motives  by 
which  they  are  urged  to  imitate  his  character. 
In  an  hour  of  solitary  musing,  my  eye  fell  upon 
the  exhortation  of  the  apostle  : 

"  Finally,  brethren,  whatsoever  things  are  true, 
whatsoever  things  are  honest,  whatsoever  things 
are  just,  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report ;  if  there  be  any  virtue,  if  there  be  any 
promise ;  think  on  these  things," 

I  was  struck  with  tliis  enumeration  of  the 
graces  of  the  Christian.  I  felt  that  in  all  my 
efforts  for  moral  attainment  I  had  been  guided 
by  no  higher  motive  than  a  desire  for  the  love 
of  one  like  myself — unholy  and  imperfect.  Then 
came  upon  my  soul  the  higlier  obligation  resting 
upon  those  wlio  are  required  to  be  perfect  even 
as  God  is  perfect ;  who  are  to  make  Christ  their 
model  of  character,  their  example  for  life;  and  I 
learned  that  1  was  not  to  live  for  myself,  my  own 
pleasure  or  gratification,  but  for  Him  who,  having 
once  died,  ever  liveth  to  intercede  for  liis  people. 
Many  years  passed  before  I  married.     I  did  not 

soon  forget  Bessie  S .     I  met  her  frequently 

the  first  year  of  her  married  life.  I  saw  her  a 
happy  wife — a  motlier,  with  children  as  lovely 
as  herself.  I  saw  her  as  health  declined,  and 
beauty  faded,  still  fair,  but  pale  and  care-worn, 


and,  I  thought,  somewhat  sad.  My  deep  passion 
was  softened  to  a  tender  commiserating  regard 
—to  the  pity  which  we  ever  feel  for  the  decay  of 
the  beautiful.  In  n)y  deepest  hour  of  trial,  I 
keenly  felt  bitterness  towards  her.  I  had  never 
asked  her  love.  I  charged  her  with  no  cajirice  or 
deceit.  If  the  conscious  instinct  of  the  woman 
had  shown  her  her  power,  she  liad  shrunk  from 
any  display  ;  she  had  avoided  all  triumph.  Had 
she  really  intended  me  an  injury,  she  still  liadbut 
wrought  me  good :  my  love  had  purified  and 
refined  m^-^  character — my  disajipointment  iiad 
strengthened  and  elevated  it. 

I  did  not  marry  until  I  could  meet  her  who  had 
first  stirred  the  deep  pulses  of  my  heart  witliout 
one  tremor !  —until  I  could  offer  her  whom  I  now 
wooed  a  heart  which  was  all  her  own. 

As  I  roused  me  from  my  long  musing,  aud 
glanced  at  the  fair  woman  whom  I  call  wife,  I 
thought  she,  too,  might  forgive  my  earlier  pas- 
sion. The  very  qualities  which  awoke  my  first 
perceptions  of  female  excellence,  guided  me  in  my 
after  choice.  The  refinement,  purity,  and  prin- 
ciple I  loved  in  Bessie  S.,  I  still  sought  and 
found  in  my  wife  ;  while  the  remembrance  of  all 
that  I, had  suff'ered  from  an  unrequited  aff'ection 
deepened  ray  tenderness  for  her  whose  blushes 
betrayed  the  love  which  I  sought  to  win,  before 
I  asked  it. 

Then,  as  I  rose  from  my  chair  and  kissed  the 
fair,  smooth  brow  of  my  wife,  I  exclaimed,  '•  Who 
shall  find  a  virtuous  woman?  Her  price  is  far 
above  rubies." 

Yes,  still  is  her  influence  felt.  Whether  she 
return  or  repel  his  love,  the  character  of  the 
woman  who  awakens  that  love  in  the  heart  of  a 
man  still  affects  that  of  the  lover,  for  good  or  for 
evil,  for  weal  or  for  wo,  for  time  and  for  eternity. 
A  man's  hopes  may  be  crushed,  his  afl'ection 
rejected;  but  the  very  consciousness  that  he  has 
loved  one  well  worthy  of  a  man's  true  love,  is  at 
once  ennobling  and  exalting.  He  can  bear  the 
disappointment,  in  the  high  feeling  that  he  has 
thus  rendered  a  true  homage  to  excellence  and 
to  virtue  ;  while  he  who  loves  an  unworthy,  or 
vain,  or  trifling  woman,  either  sinks  to  the  level 
of  the  chobun,  or  wearies  his  life  with  a  vain  effort 
to  elevate  her. 


THE  TKEASIIRES  AND  PLEASUUES  OF  GEOLOGY.* 


BY     WILLIAM      OLAND      BOURNE 


The  brilliant  discoveries  ■which  have  rendered 
the  last  half  century  so  remarkable  a   period  in 
the  world's  history,  are  not  only  valuable  as  ele- 
ments of  social  progress,  but  as  sources  of  the  most 
exalted  pleasure.     Chemistry,  which  had  for  hun- 
dreds of    years   been   rudely    cradled    in    the 
mysterious     processes    of    the     alchemist,    to- 
ward the   close   of  the   last  century   began  to 
assume    a    higher    character   than    that   of    a 
miracle-working  gold  seeker,   and  the  relations 
of     various    substances,    and    the   laws   which 
govern   them,    came     to  be     investigated  with 
the  eye  of  a  new  philosophy  and  the  incentive  of 
a  truer  principle.     Watt  and    Black,   Lavoisier 
and  Gay  Lussac,  Hales,  Franklin,  and  Priestley, 
and  their  contemporaries,  in  their  several  depart- 
ments, developed  laws  unknown  to  science,   and 
left  for  their  successors  the  bases,  and,  in   some 
cases,  the  perfected  platforms  upon  which  they 
could  labor  with  still  greater  success.     Lord  Ba- 
con observes  that  the  discoveries  and  inventions 
of  the  alchemists  "  are  well  represented  in   the 
fable  of  the  old  man  who  left  an  estate  to  his 
children,    buried,   as  he   said,   in    his  vineyard, 
which,  therefore,  they  fell  to  dig  and   search  for 
with  great  diligence  ;  whereby,  though  they  found 
no  gold  in  substance,  yet  they  received  an  abun- 
dant vintage  for  their  labor.     So  assuredly  has 
the  search  and  stir  to  make  gold  produced  a  great 
number  of  fruitful  experiments." 

Geology,  of  the  economic  sciences  the  last 
which  enlisted  the  earnest  attention  of  learned 
inquirers,  has  perhaps  suffered  for  the  want  of 
some  such  stimulus.  Had  the  search  for  gold 
been  made  in  the  sands  of  the  streams,  or  the 
fissures  of  the  rocks,  or  the  depths  of  ravines,  no 
matter  how  impracticably  stubborn  in  refusing  to 
yield  the  auriferous  prize,  or  had  the  search  been 
made  with  a  philosophical  spirit  in  those  regions 
where  gold  finds  its  proper  repositories,  Geology 
would   not   have  waited  until  the  close  of  the 


*  The  Old  Red  Sandstone  ;  or.  New  Walks  in  an  Old 
Field.  By  HughMiller.  Boston  :  Gould  &  Lincoln,  1851, 
cloth,  12  mo,  pp.  260.  The  Foot-Prints  of  the  Creator ;  or, 
The  Asterolepis  of  Stromness.  By  Hugh  Miller,  author  of 
"  The  Old  Red  Sandstone."  Boston  :  Gould,  Kendall  & 
Lincoln ,  1850,  cloth,  12  mo,  pp .  337. 


eighteenth  century  for  its  first  distinct  recognition 
among  the  sciences,  or  for  its  superior  claims  as 
a  practical  science  of  the  highest  value.  Had 
even  the  fruitless  and  disastrous  searches  for  coal, 
in  regions  where  coal  cannot  be  obtained  except 
by  reaching  a  possible  carboniferous  antipode, 
been  made  with  a  philosophical  eye,  facts  might 
have  been  accumulated  of  an  important  charac- 
ter, as  a  substratum,  at  least,  upon  which  the 
richer  alluvium  of  the  expanding  stream  might 
have  been  deposited.  But  no  such  aids  and  no 
such  influences  took  their  sponsorial  places  at  the 
altar  of  geological  science. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  last  century,  Werner 
in  Saxony,  and  Hutton  in  Scotland,   seized  the 
trifling  materials  which  had  been  slowly  drifted 
along,  and   the  Saxon  Professor,  with  a  partial 
field  of  observation  in  his  own  district,  boldly 
and  eloquently  uttered  his  doctrines  of  the  earth , 
and  gave  the   first  great  impetus  to  inquiry  into 
the  physical  structure  of  the  globe.     Hutton,  re- 
siding in  another  district  of  a  very  marked  char- 
acter, perfectly  irreconcilable  with  the  general- 
izing theories  of  the  Wernerian  school,  founded 
upon  the  fields  of  his  own   observation    an   op- 
posing system — Werner  advocating  the  Neptun- 
ian or  aqueous,   and   Hutton  the   Vulcanian  or 
igneous  theory.     Other  philosophers  entered  the 
field,  and  the  discussions  arising  from  these  specu- 
lations required,  in  a  province  which  is  eminent- 
ly  one  of   actual    observation,  the  discovery  of 
facts,  which,  to  apply  the  words  of  Bacon,  "  they 
fell  to  dig  and  search  for  with  great  diligence; 
and  so  assuredly  the  search  and  stir  to  make 
[theories]  produced  a  great  number  of  fruitful 
experiments." 

At  the  present  time  Geology  enlists  the  pro- 
foundest  study  of  some  of  the  master  minds  of 
the  age.  It  is  but  as  yesterday  that  Cuvier  de- 
ciphered the  hieroglyphs  of  the  Paris  basin,  and 
would  have  read  as  rapidly  and  accurately  the 
"Foot-Prints"  in  the  Old  Red  Sandstone  of 
Stromness,  or  Cromarty,  or  Balruddery.  aa 
Champollion  wlien  he  deciphered  the  history  of 
an  Egyptian  Apis  or  prince  in  the  iconography 
and  paleography  of  a  subterranean  hecatomb. 
Today,   an    Agassiz  takes    the  shattered  frag- 


THE  TREASURES  AND  PLEASURES  OF  GEOLOGY. 


15 


ments  of  a  fossil  from  the  Old  Red  Sandstone, 
and  assigns  them  their  place  in  the  scale  of  or- 
ganisms, almost  as  readily  as  he  would  the  tibia 
or  the  femur  of  a  skeleton  of  one  of  the  existing 
species  of  animal;^.  Buckland,  Murchison,  Lyell, 
Bake-well,  Silliman,  and  many  others,  are  wit- 
nesses of  the  treasures  not  less  than  the  exalted 
pleasures  of  Geology. 

Observers  and  students  in  this  field  are  becom- 
ing more  numerous,  and  were  their  number  mul- 
tiplied a  hundredfold,  they  would  bo  too  few. 
The  exploration  of  this  country  is  as  yet  but  just 
begun,  while  British  America,  Spanish  and  South- 
ern America  have  been  scarcely  touched.  Even 
in  England  and  Scotland  there  is  yet  room  for  ex- 
tended and  laborious,  and  to  be  well  repaid  re- 
tearch.  Partial  explorations  have  been  made  in 
Europe,  while  Africa,  Asia,  and  New  Holland  are 
yet  fields  comparatively  unknown  to  the  geolo- 
gist. The  treasures  which  the  next  twenty-five 
years  will  reveal  will  but  partially  exhaust  the 
amount  of  pleasure  to  be  enjoyed  by  the  practi- 
cal explorer  and  student. 

PoUok  has  beautifully  said  : 

"Abundant,  and  diversified  above 
All  number,  were  the  sources  of  delight  ; 
As  infinite  as  were  the  lips  that  drank  ; 
And  to  the  pure,  all  innocent  and  pure  ; 
The  simplest  still  to  wisest  men  the  best. 
One  made  acquaintanceship  with  plants  and  flo-wers, 
And  happy  grc%v  in  telling  all  their  names. 
One  classed  the  quadrupeds  ;  a  third  the  fowls; 
Another  found  in  minerals  !iis  joy. 
And  I  have  seen  a  man,  a  worthy  man, 
In  happy  mood  conversing  with  a  fly  ; 
And  as  he  through  his  glass,  made  by  himself, 
Beheld  its  wondrous  eye   and  plumage  fine, 
From  leaping  scarce  he  kept  for  perfect  joy." 

The  geologist,  as  he  trudges  along  with  his 
basket,  his  hammers,  and  chisels,  cracking  the 
nf)dule  or  breaking  off  the  angles  of  a  stone  lodged 
in  the  fence  of  some  busy  farmer,  may  appear  to 
be  engaged  in  a  strange  and  unmeaning  employ- 
ment. But  such  an  accidental  blow  may  reveal 
to  the  eye  a  new  organism,  unmonographed  in  the 
arcliives  of  science,  and  unknown  to  our  present 
existences.  That  specimen  may  be  a  key  to  a 
new  class  of  facts — may  supply  a  link  in  creation, 
or  may,  with  its  stony  tonijue,  still  speak,  after 
the  lapse  of  an  unknown  period,  of  the  infinite 
mind  of  the  Creator.  Just  so  near  as  we  humbly 
and  reverently  approach  the  Divine  presence, 
with  the  confidence  and  the  eye  of  faith,  so  clearer 
do  we  read  His  perfections,  and  His  goodness, 
whether  in  the  starry  radiance  of  the  azure  sky, 
the  dealings  of  Providence  in  his  moral  govern- 
ment, or  whether  we  descend  to  the  remotest 
periods  of  the  past  of  our  earth,  and  from  under 


the  superimposed  and  luminous  folios  of  a  thou- 
sand generations  of  extinct  sentient  beings,  carve 
out  with  hammer  and  chisel  the  still  distinct  and 
instructive  lessons  gleamed  from  the  "Foot- 
Prints"  of  the  Moray  or  Cromarty  Friths. 

We  know  that  infidelity,  driven  from  its  seat 
wliich  it  had  usurped  among  the  stars,  like  Luci- 
fer cast  down  from  heaven,  has  souglit  to  lodge 
itself  in  the  chair  of  the  Geologist.  But  as  the 
pretended  philosophy  of  a  progressive  develop- 
ment from  an  electrized  atom  of  mud  turns  over 
its  stony  volumes,  and  finds  that  it  is  confronted 
with  the  undeniable  pastexistence  of  beings 
of  a  high  development,  from  which,  as  Jlr.  Miller 
observes,  a  "theory  of  degradation'  may  with 
equal  plausibility  be  framed,  it  will  find  that  its 
lodgment  is  but  a  temporary  season  for  possible 
repentance  before  it  is  consigned  to  that  "  central 
fire"  of  which  it  is  its  own  witness  :  in  the  words 
of  Pollok  :— 

"  Perplexed  exceedingly  why  shells  were  found 
Upon  the  mountain  tops;  but  wondering  not 
"Why  shells  more  found  at  all — more  wondrous  still  I'' 

"  Geology ,  of  all  the  sciences."  says  Miller,  (Old 
Red  Sandstone,  p.  31,)  "addresses  itself  most 
powerfully  to  the  imagination,  and  hence  one 
main  cause  of  the  interest  which  it  excites.  Ere 
setting  ourselves  minutely  to  examine  the  peculi- 
arities of  these  creatures,  it  would  be  perhaps 
well  that  the  reader  should  attempt  realizing  the 
place  of  their  existence,  and  relatively  the  iimc — 
not,  of  course,  with  regard  to  dates  and  eras,  for 
the  geologist  has  none  to  reckon  by,  but  with  re- 
spect to  formations.  They  were  the  denizens  of 
the  same  portions  of  tlie  globe  which  we  ourselves 
inhabit,  regarded  not  as  a  tract  of  country,  but  as 
a  piece  of  ocean,  crossed  by  the  same  geographi- 
cal lines  of  latitude  and  longitude.  Their  present 
place  of  sepulture  in  some  localities,  had  there 
been  no  denudation,  would  have  been  raised  high 
over  the  tops  of  our  loftiest  hills — at  least  a  hun- 
dred feet  over  the  conglomerates  which  form  the 
summit  of  Morvheim,  and  more  than  a  thousand 
feet  over  the  snow-capped  Ben  Wyvis.  Geology 
has  still  greater  wonders.  I  have  seen  belemnites 
of  the  Oolite — comparatively  a  modern  formation 
— which  had  been  dug  out  of  the  sides  of  the 
Himalaya  Mountains,  seventeen  thousand  feet 
over  the  level  of  the  sea.  But  let  us  strive  to 
carry  our  minds  back,  not  to  the  place  of  sepul- 
ture of  these  creatures,  high  in  the  rocks — though 
that  I  shall  afterwards  attempt  minutely  to  de- 
scribe— but  to  the  place  in  which  they  lived  long 
eie  the  saurian  [lizard]  fishes  of  Burdie  House  had 
begun  to  exist,  or  the  corallines  of  tlie  mountain 
limestone   had    spread  out  their  multitudinous 


THE  TREASURES  AND  PLEASURES  OF  GEOLOGY. 


arms  in  a  sea  gradually  shallowing,  and  out  of 
wbicli  the  land  had  already  partially  emerged." 

^Yhile  Geology  inspires  in  this  eminent  degree 
the  "pleasures  of  imagination,"  men  who  have 
been  "  perplexed  exceedingly,"  with  some  of  the 
facts  of  the  science,  have  made  incontinent  drafts 
upon  imagination,  in  order  to  fill  out  the  blanks 
in  their  theoretical  systems.  The  development  of 
man  from  a  monad  to  a  bullfrog,  and  from  the 
bull-frog  to  the  monkey,  and  from  the  monkey  to 
the  man,  through  the  several  links  of  the  ascend- 
ing scale,  may  be  a  pretty  theory  for  a  mind  that 
can  be  content  to  trace  back  its  origin  to  such  a 
parentage  ;  but  sure  it  is  to  our  apprehension,  that 
tlie  lion's  mane  has  been  well  shaken  from  the 
successor  of  one  species,  by  the  author  of  the  two 
volumes  which  suggest  these  passing  thoughts. 

Of  these  works,  and  of  the  author  and  his  per- 
sonal narrative,  much  might  be  said,  but  it  is  not 
our  design  to  "review,"  in  the  short  compass  of  a 
magazine  article,  so  fruitful  and  bold  a  theme  as 
that  presented  by  Mr.  r»liller,  the  proper  discus- 
sion of  which  would  require  a  technicality  unwel- 
come to  the  general  reader.  But  to  the  author 
too  much  of  praise  cannot  be  given,  for  the  great 
value  of  his  discoveries-  in  the  geological  lield^ 
nor  of  admiration  fur  the  contribution  he  has 
made  to  tlie  department  of  theologies.  The 
purity  and  elegance  of  style,  and  the  beauty  and 
felicity  of  illustration,  have  commanded  the  high 
encomiums  of  Sir  David  Brewster  and  of  Profes- 
sor Agassiz,  not  less  than  of  the  best  thinkers  and 
critics  of  this  country  and  of  Europe  ;  and  these 
two  works  will  survive  as  among  the  most  re- 
markable contributions  to  natural  science  of  the 
present  fruitful  period. 

The  personal  history  of  the  author  is  the  first, 
and  an  instructive  chapter  in  the  "  Old  Red 
Sandstone. '  Mr.  Miller  was  the  son  of  a  sea- 
faring man,  who  was  lost  at  sea  when  Hugh  was 
five  years  of  age ;  and  when  old  enough  to  earn  his 
subsistence,  he  was  sent  to  work  in  a  stone  quarry. 
Year  after  year  he  toiled  at  this  laborious  occu- 
pation; but,  with  a  habit  of  observation,  and  that 
superiority  of  spirit,  which  leads  the  true  man  to 
make  even  the  humblest  occupation  the  oppor- 
tunity for  intellectual  improvement  and  noble 
enjoyment,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  fossils 
and  curious  markings  in  the  sandstone  it  was  his 
fortune  to  dig,  and  upon  which  he  has  now  en- 
graved his  own  name  not  less  lastingly  than 
have  the  Asterolcpis  or  the  Ptericthys  Milleri,oi 
the  formation  which  he  has  so  truthfully  brought 
to  light.  Having  no  guide,  no  instructor,  and  no 
books,  he  says,  "I  had  to  grope  my  way  as  I  best 
might,  and  find  out  all  its  wonders  for  myself. 
But  so  slow  was  the  process,  and  so  much  was  I 


a  seeker  in  the  dark,  that  the  facts  contained  in 
these  few  sentences  were  the  patient  gatherings 
of  years."  The  records  of  science  scarce  show 
another  example  of  such  perseverance  on  the  part 
of  a  mere  lad,  in  exploring  an  entire  new  field, 
under  such  circumstances.  After  ten  years  ex- 
plorations, he  discovered  a  fact  unknown  to 
science,  that  this  sandstone  "  was  richly  fossili- 
ferous ;  and  ten  more  passed  before  he  could  as- 
sign them  their  exact  place  in  the  scale.  His 
labors  have  been  well  repaid,  and  the  patient, 
persevering,  observing  boy  of  the  stone  quarry, 
is  now  known  not  less  honorably  as  one  of  the 
most  accurate  of  scientific  writers  and  the  most 
eminent  geologists  of  the  day,  than  he  is  for  his 
acute  and  convincing  reasoning,  and  his  masterly 
advocacy  of  the  truth,  not  only  of  the  Mosaic 
record,  but  of  the  Gospel.  Look  up,  O  toiling 
laborers !  and  learn  that  you  may  achieve  if  you 
will! 

We  cannot  close  our  notice  of  this  rich  addition 
to  the  literature  of  science  and  theology,  better 
than  by  quoting  the  words  of  our  author,  in  the 
conclusion  of  Chapter  V.  of  the  "  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone." 

"  We  cannot  catechise  our  stony  ichthyolites  as 
the  necromantic  lady  of  the  Arabian  Nights  did 
the  colored  fish  of  the  lake  which  had  once  been 
a  city,  when  she  touched  their  dead  bodies  with 
her  wand,  and  they  straightway  raised  their 
heads  and  replied  to  her  queries.  We  would  have 
many  a  question  to  ask  them  if  we  could — ques- 
tions never  to  be  solved.  But  even  the  contem- 
plation of  their  remains  is  a  powerful  stimulant 
to  thought.  The  wonders  of  Geology  exercise 
every  faculty  of  the  mind — reason,  memory, 
imagination ;  and  though  we  cannot  put  our  fos- 
sils to  the  question,  it  is  something  to  be  so 
aroused  as  to  be  made  to  put  questions  to  one's  self. 
1  have  referred  to  the  consistency  of  style  which 
attained  among  these  ancient  fishes — the  unity  of 
character  which  marked  every  scale,  plate,  and 
fin  of  every  various  family,  and  which  distin- 
guished it  from  the  rest ;  and  who  can  doubt  that 
the  same  shades  of  variety  existed  in  their  habits 
and  their  instincts  ?  We  speak  of  the  infinity  of 
Deity — of  his  inexhaustible  variety  of  mind;  but 
we  speak  of  it  until  the  idea  becomes  a  piece  of 
mere  common-place  in  our  mouths.  It  is  well  to 
be  brought  to  feel,  if  not  to  conceive  of  it — to  be 
made  to  know  that  we  ourselves  are  barren- 
minded,  and  that  in  Him  "  all  fullness  dwelleth." 
Succeeding  creations,  each  with  its  myriads  of 
existences,  do  not  expand  Him.  He  never  repeats 
Himself.  The  curtain  drops,  at  his  command,  over 
one  scene  of  existence  full  of  wisdom  and  beauty ; 
it  rises  again,  and  all  is  glorious,  wise,  and  beau- 


RAGE   FOR   UNEARNED    WEALTH, 


11 


tiful  as  before ;  and  all  is  new.  "Who  can  sum 
up  the  amount  of  wisdom  whose  record  He  has 
written  in  the  rocks — wisdom  exhibited  in  the 
succeeding  creations  of  earth,  ere  man  was,  but 
which  was  exhibited  surely  not  in  vain  ?  May  we 
not  say  with  Milton: — 

"Think  not,  though  men  were  none, 
That  heaven  could  want  spectators,  God  want  praise  ; 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walked  the  earth, 
And  these  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  beheld." 


It  is  well  to  return  on  the  record,  and  to  read 
in  its  unequivocal  characters  the  lessons  which  it 
was  intended  to  teach.  Infidelity  has  often  mis- 
interpreted its  meaning,  but  not  the  less  on  that 
account  has  it  been  inscribed  for  purposes  alike 
wise  and  benevolent.  Is  it  noihing  to  be  taught, 
with  a  demonstrative  evidence  which  the  meta- 
physician cannot  supply,  that  races  are  not  eter- 
nal— that  every  family  had  its  beginning,  and  that 
whole  creations  have  come  to  an  end  V' 


RAGE   FOR   UNEARNED   WEALTH 


FROM  THE   WASTE-DRAWER   OF   A   CLERGYMAN, 


The  desire  of  obtaining  wealth  by  a  single  stroke, 
with  little  or  no  exertion  beyond  the  effort  of 
asking  the  ideal  goddess  Fortune  to  give  it,  is  so 
prevalent  among  the  great  bulk  of  mankind,  that 
it  may  be  termed  perfectly  natural.  But  to  in- 
dulge in  what  is  perfectly  natural  may  also  be  to 
indulge  in  what  is  as  perfectly  foolish,  and,  there- 
fore, in  this,  as  in  the  thousand  other  cases  in 
which  men  blindly  mistake  their  wishes  for  their 
wants,  the  realization  of  the  desire,  startling  as 
the  assertion  may  seem,  proves  nothing  else  but 
a  curse  in  the  majority  of  instances.  Unearned 
wealth  rarely  confers  the  happiness  men  imagine 
it  must  necessarily  do ;  its  gathering  together 
has  called  ft-rth  no  energies  of  mind  or  of  body, 
and  its  spending  affords  as  little  corresponding 
pleasure.  Frequently  does  it  induce  in  its  foolishly 
envied  possessor  a  most  offensive  pride,  a  hard 
heart,  a  squandering  hand,  a  cankering  indolence, 
a  miserably  eifete  life,  in  which  mental  and  phy- 
sical gifts  are  degradingly  prostrated.  An  in- 
dividual may  indeed  say — and  frequently  does 
— that  were  /«•  blessed  with  a  bountiful  gift  of 
unearned  wealth,  he  would  dedicate  his  whole  life 
to  do  good  with  it;  he  would  cause  it  to  minister 
not  merely  to  his  own  gratification,  but  make  it  a 
dispenser  of  liappiness  to  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
Alas  !  the  experience  of  the  world  testifies  to  the 
fallacy  of  this  genial  theory,  for  the  reality  is, 
that  nothing  is  more  common  than  that  the  man 
who,  when  poor,  and  living  on  the  scanty  earnings 
of  his  industry,  was  noted  for  being  a  cheerful 
benefactor  of  his  race,  so  far  as  his  very  limited 
means  allowed  him,  and  who  was  ever  kind  and 

6 


warm-heaited,  experiences,  as  soon  as  the  curse 
of  unearned  wealth  has  fallen  upon  him,  a  woful 
change  indeed.  He  becomes,  as  it  were,  by  the 
magic  stroke  of  a  malevolent  enchanter's  wand, 
intensely  selfish,  stony-hearted,  deaf  to  all  claims 
on  his  benevolence,  and  even  on  his  justice,  and 
of  course,  in  a  corresponding  ratio,  grows  supreme- 
ly unhappy.  The  reason  is,  the  man's  nature 
has  undergone  a  complete  and  fearful  change  :  a 
moral  leprosy  of  the  most  deadly  nature  has  in- 
fected" his  very  soul.  Analogous  to  this,  is  the 
well-known  fact,  that  unfeigned,  devoted  patriots 
have  very  frequently  proved  cruel  tyrants,  when 
once  possessed  of  unlimited  power  themselves. 

SeUloin  doe.s)  tbe  acquirer  of  unearned  monpy 
spend  it  properly ;  rarely  does  he  afterwards 
achieve  deeds  worth  recording.  Weariedly  does 
he  drag  through  his  allotted  length  of  days,  be- 
grudged by  many,  scorned  by  some,  pitied  by  the 
tolerant,  despised  (peihaps)  by  himself.  Oh ! 
dark  and  fearful  is  the  curse  of  unearned  money, 
yet  few  there  be  who  will  believe  this,  and  those 
few  are  for  the  most  part  the  very  beings  who 
have  experienced  it.  They  know  but  too  well 
how  preferable  was  the  time  when  they  jingled 
the  few  hardly  earned  shillings  in  their  pockets, 
and  dined  with  infinite  relish  on  a  crust  of  bread 
and  cheese  under  a  hedge,  to  that  in  which  they 
joylessly  sat  down  to  a  splendid  banquet  under 
the  gorgeous  roof  of  their  own  palatial  residence, 
bought  with  unearned  money !  Sweet  is  it  to 
earn  money  by  the  sweat  of  brow  and  brain,  and 
a  happy  privilege  is  it  to  spend  the  same  in  a 
worthy  way  ;  but  bitter  is  unearned  money  after 


78 


RAGE  FOR  UNEARNED  WEALTH. 


the  intoxication  of  its  first  possession  has  passed 
away  ;  pleasiireless  is  its  expenditure,  and  mephi- 
tic  and  paralyzing  the  influence  it  exerts. 

When  once  the  feverish,  corroding  passion  of 
obtaining  unearned  wealth  has  won  a  powerful 
ascendancy,  the  subject  is  ready  to  embrace  with 
uncalculating  ardor  the  wildest  and  most  absurd 
schemes  which  temptingly  hold  forth  hopes  of 
speedy  aggrandizement.  In  fact,  the  more  im- 
])racticable  they  are  on  the  very  face  of  them,  the 
more  evident  their  reckless  perversion  of  truth^ 
the  grosser  their  dazzling  lies,  and  the  more  pal- 
pable the  veil  under  which  they  seek  to  liide  their 
real  object  (that  of  fleecing  the  weak  dupes  who 
invest  their  little  capital  in  them) — ?o  much  the 
more  eagerly,  blindly,  madly,  do  people  seem  to 
support  them! — Any  well-devised  speculation, 
promising  speedy,  or,  in  other  words,  unearned 
riches,  is  pretty  sure  to  "take."  No  matter  how 
often  the  transparent  bubble  has  burst ;  how 
711  any  thousands  of  wretches  have  been  reduced 
through  it  from  happiness  and  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances to  the  depths  of  misery  and  despair; 
how  frequent  soever  the  warnings  given  of  the 
;ilmost  invariable  result  of  yielding  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  greedy  whirpool — all  is  vain  for  pre- 
venting a  constant  succession  of  fresh  victims, 
each  as  confident  and  full  of  baseless  hope  as  the 
predecessor  whose  disappointment  has  so  lately 
gleamed  as  a  beacon-light,  seen,  but  unregarded. 
Surely  it  must  indeed  be  true  that 

'•  The  pleasure  is  as  great 
Of  being  cheated,  as  to  cheat  1'" 

Of  all   speculations  of  this  description,  those 
entitled  lotteries  are  the  oldest,  and  still  perhaps 
the   most   popular.     Even    at   this   day,    many 
young  men,  who  once  had  well  regulated  minds, 
who  never  would  have  dreamed  of  any  wild  or 
reprehensible  scheme    of  unearned   aggrandize- 
ment, had  not  the  alluring  poison  of  lottery  pros- 
])ectuses  been  insidiously  poured  upon  them,  prove 
none  the  less  thoughtless,  none  the  less  eager  to 
embrace  the  propositions  of  the  needy  adventurers 
across  the  seas,  none  the  less  extravagantly  hope- 
ful against  hope  itself,  and,  finally,  none  the  less 
do  they  experience  the  disastrous  consequences 
invariably   attendant   on   embarkation   in   such 
schemes.     Every  purchaser  of  a  ticket  is  sure  he 
shall  vin  a   wondrous  prize — he  demonstrates 
that  assumed  certainty  to  his  own  perfect  satis- 
faction by  abstruse  calculations  of  singular  inge- 
nuity and  foresight ;  and  he  will  count  the  feith- 
fal  friend  who  exposes    to  him  the  reality  in 
prospect,  as  an  uncharitable  enemy.    The  number 
of  giddy  fools  who  thus  annually  rush  into  the 
fowler's  snare  is  far  more  than  the  public  may  be 


prepared  to  believe.  Yet  speak  to  the  dupes 
themselves,  and  what  credit  do  they  give  your 
warning  voice  ?  You  are  a  malevolent  being — a 
cloud  before  their  sun  !  Unearned  wealth  is  al- 
ready within  their  reach,  and  you  -would  prevent 
them  grasping  it !  Tlie  prizes  blazoned  forth  in 
capitals  upon  paper  alone  fill  their  imagination,  to 
the  exclusion  of  every  other  object,  and  to  the 
complete  annihilation  of  the  most  obvious  prompt- 
ings of  common  sense. 

The  present  El  Dorado  is  California.  The 
excitement  concerning  it  is  subdued,  perhaps,  in 
tone,  but  undiminished  in  reality.  During  the 
past  two  years,  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
of  adventurers,  in  haste  to  get  rich,  have  left 
their  little  certainties  in  different  lands,  for  the 
gigantic  uncertainties  of  California.  Many,  of 
whom  much  better  might  have  been  expected, 
have  done  this,  stimulated  by  '^the  marvelous 
stories  which  unknown  and  unresponsible  news- 
paper correspondents  have  sent  of  the  doings  at 
the  "  diggings."  How  many  thousands  are  at 
this  moment  on  their  way  from  our  own  shores, 
it  is  impossible  to  estimate.  But  we  know  that 
all,  as  they  go,  enthusiastically  sing — 

'•  So  now  the  Golden  Age  is  come, 
The  Golden  Country  lies  before  us  : 

We  leave  the  plough,  we  quit  the  loom, 
And  merrily  we  sing  in  chorus — 
"The  Golden  Country  lies  before  us."' 

Great  numbers  inevitably  perish,  through  the 
fearful  dangers  of  sea  and  land,  ere  the  Golden 
Country  is  reached  ;  and,  when  there,  the  survi- 
vors discover  that  no  man  can  possibly  stand  a 
regular  day's  work  at  gold-seeking,  unless  he 
possesses  herculean  strength,  and  has  been  train- 
ed to  manual  labor.  They  find  that  they  must 
constantly  work  in  the  stream — their  lower  limbs 
and  arms  perished  with  the  intensely  cold  water, 
■whilst  their  backs  are  blistered  -with  the  sun. 
They  find  that  the  three  grand  necessaries  of  life 
— food,  clothes,  and  shelter — are  Utopian  impos- 
sibilities at  the  "  diggings."  They  find  tliat  mor- 
tal diseases  are  rife  from  the  swamps,  and  that 
rattle-snakes  are  far  more  plentiful  than  penny- 
loaves.  They  find  that  subtle  Indians  are  con- 
tinually making  raids  in  industrious  search  of 
white  men's  scalps.  They  find  that  their  own 
comrades  plunder  them,  in  preference  to  working 
themselves.  They  find  that  th.eir  very  nature  is 
changed ;  and  that,  like  Ishmael,  their  hand  is 
against  every  man,  and  every  man's  hand  is 
against  them.  They  find  that  if,  by  dint  of  in- 
cessant toil  and  extraordinary  success,  they  have 
scraped  together  a  bagful  of  the  precious  ore, 
they  must  pillow  their  heads  upon  it  at  night,  and 
doze,  rather  than  sleep,  -with  a  bowie  knife  be- 


THE   FEAR   OF  BEING   AN   OLD    MAID. 


"79 


fween  their  teeth,  and  a  "  revolver"  in  each  hand, 
lest  their  throats  should  be  mysteriously  divided. 
They  find  that  they  are  perishing  for  lack  of  food, 
and  would  exchange  a  handful  of  gold  for  a  crust 
of  bread.  Then  it  is  that  they  sing  again;  but 
Now  they  chant — 

"Amid  red  rock  and  desert  sand, 
The  Golden  Country  lies  before  lis. 

Famine  and  hunger  hand  in-hand, 

Behind  us  death,  the  Judgment  o'er  us — 
The  Golden  Country  gleams  before  us." 


not  the  old  song 


The  best  lottery  is  the  sphere  of  life  in  which 
Providence  has  placed  us,  and  in  which  we  have 
only  to  deposit  steady  industry  and  cheerful  faith, 
and  may  rest  certain  of  drawing  ultimately  an 
honorable  well-earned  prize.  The  true  El  Dorado 
is  our  own  land  ;  the  only  profitable  "diggings'' 
the  fields  of  our  infancy ;  the  only  jewel  of  hap- 
piness lieih  not  imbedded  in  tropical  streams, 
but  in  our  own  breasts,  and  its  setting  is  not  gold 
but  contentment. 


THE    FEAR    OF    BEING    AN    OLD   MAID. 


3T      URS.      S.      B.      HALL. 


When  I  was  a  little  girl,  I  was  a  fat,  merry 
jolly  dumpling,  as  liappy  as  the  day  was  long. 
Everybody  pinched  my  red  cheeks,  and  I  wad- 
dled about  with  my  doll  in  my  plump  arms,  find- 
ing fun  in  everything,  and  fully  believing  that 
my  doll  was  as  sensible  as  myself;  and  perhaps 
she  was,  almost.  But,  though  I  had  a  natural 
antipathy  to  a  spelling-book,  and  no  fondness  for 
spending  a  long  summer's  afternoon  in  poking  a 
needle  in  and  out  of  a  bit  of  calico ;  though  I 
considered  patchwork  all  foolishness,  and  gussets 
as  utter  superfluities;  though  I  was  called  a  sim- 
pleton for  asking  my  mother  why  she  cut  cloth 
up  and  then  sewed  it  together  again,  still,  I  was 
fond  of  picking  up  ideas  after  my  own  fashion 
When  the  wise  people  around  me  supposed  I 
was  thinking  of  nothing  but  my  play,  my  two 
little  ears  were  open  to  every  word  spoken  in  my 
hearing.  And  many  was  the  word  impressed  on 
my  memory,  which  tlie  speaker  forgot  next  mo- 
ment. The  talk  around  me  was  my  real  educa- 
tion, as  it  is  of  all  children,  send  tliem  to  what 
school  you  may. 

When  I  was  ten  years  old,  I  had  one  sister 
aged  fifteen,  and  another  seventeen  ;  and,  as  usual 
with  girls  of  that  age,  they  hail  a  set  of  cronies, 
some  very  like  and  some  quite  unlike  them  in 
character.  One  afternoon,  as  I  was  tending  my 
doll  Ophelia,  who  was  sick  in  bed,  I  heard  a 
brisk  discussion  among  these  girls,  which,  I  may 
almost  say,  decided  my  fate  for  life. 

The  iir.it  words  that  cauglit  niv  attention  came 


from  an  animated,  romantic  girl  of  sixteen,  scold- 
ing because  the  heroine  of  a  novel  she  had  just 
read  was  left  unmarried  at  the  end  of  the  story  ! 
What  surprise  was  expressed  at  this  catastrophe  ! 
what  indignation  ! 

One  of  my  si.~ters  did  not  seem  to  symi)atliize 
with  this  burst  of  disapprobation,  and  then  came 
the  pithy  question,  "  What,  would  you  be  wil- 
ling to  die  an  old  maid  ?"  Mary  said  very  quietly, 
"  Yes ;"  and  sister  Ellen  added,  "  So  would  I !" 

Then  such  looks  of  amazement  and  mcredulity. 
"  You  can't  mean  what  you  say,"  cried  one.  "  If 
I  did  not  know  you  ton  well  to  think  you  a  hyp- 
ocrite,— "  said  another.  "  Why,  it  was  meant 
that  all  women  should  be  married !"  exclaimed 
a  third.  "Then  why  are  they  not  all  married?" 
asked  Mary,  with  her  usual  simplicity. 

Eager  and  hot  grew  the  controversy,  and  I  lost 
not  a  word,  while  Ophelia  lay  flat  on  her  back, 
her  stiff  kid  arms  sticking  out,  and  her  croup 
quite  forgotten.  Then  first  did  I  take  notice  of 
that  terrible  combination  of  monosyllables,  "  Old 
Maid."  In  how  many  diflferent  tones  of  contempt, 
dread,  and  deprecation,  did  I  hear  it  uttered  by 
those  juvenile  voices !  What  anecdotes  came 
forth  about  the  cross  old  maids,  and  fidgetty  old 
maids,  and  ugly,  and  dressy,  and  learned,  and 
pious,  and  flirting,  and  mischief  making  old  maids. 
Never  did  a  bevy  of  regular  fifty-year-old  spini- 
sters  utter  so  much  scandal  in  one  afternoon  as 
was  poured  forth  by  these  blooming  young  crea- 
tures.   Two  or  three  friends  of  my  mother,  whom 


80 


THE    FEAR   OF   BEING    AN    OLD   MAID. 


I  had  always  cherished  iu  my  innocent  affections, 
because  they  talked  so  pleasantly  and  were  so 
kind  to  me,  now  appeared  like  new  personages. 
'  Jliss  Z.  was  so  ugly,  she  never  could  have  had 
au  offer  !"  "  Miss  Y.  dressed  so  shabbily,  and  wore 
green  spectacles,  to  look  literary."  And  "Miss 
X.was  forever  talking  about  Sunday-school  and 
society  meetings,"  and  so  on. 

You  may  be  sure  that  the  next  time  these  la- 
dies came  to  our  house,  I  scanned  very  closely 
the  face  of  Miss  Z.,  a  face  that  I  had  always 
loved  before  ;  but  now  I  saw  that  it  was  exceed- 
ingly plain.  I  looked  hard  &l  Miss  Y.'s  drab- 
colored  bonnet  and  shawl,  perceived  that  they 
were  old-fashioned  and  ordinary,  and  that  her 
green  spectacles  looked  pedantic.  Then  Miss  X., 
beside  whom  I  had  always  squeezed  in  upon  the 
sofa,  encouraged  by  her  kindly  smile  and  de- 
lighted with  her  conversation — how  uninteresting 
she  had  become !     They  were  old  maids  ! 

It  must  be  observed  that  my  sisters — right 
good,  sensible,  domestic  girls  they  were — had  no 
part  in  this  bewilderment  of  my  young  ideas. 
They  were  in  the  minority;  sol  took  it  for  granted 
they  were  in  the  wrong.  Besides,  what  children 
are  ever  as  much  influenced  by  what  is  uttered  in 
the  familiar  voices  of  their  own  family,  as  by 
•words  of  comparative  strangers  ?  Take  care  of 
wl:at  you  say  at  a  friend's  house,  with  the  young 
folks  catching  up  every  random  sentiment  you 
drop.  Many  a  judicious  mother's  morning  ex- 
hortation has  been  blown  to  the  moon  by  some 
light  dinner  guest,  who  did  not  after  all  mean  to 
give  his  real  opinion,  or  whose  opinion  was  not 
worth  having. 

And  now,  I  assure  you,  my  education  went  on 
rapidly.  It  is  perfectly  marvelous,  in  how  many 
ways,  and  by  what  different  sorts  of  people,  a 
young  girl  is  taught  that  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to 
be  an  old  maid.  Fools  never  show  their  folly 
more  than  in  their  hackneyed  jests  upon  this 
topic  ;  but  what  shall  we  say  of  the  wise  folks, 
who  sin  almost  as  often  in  the  same  way  ?  What 
shall  we  say  of  the  refinement  of  him  who  is  gen- 
tlemanly in  thought  and  expression  on  all  subjects 
but  this  ? — of  the  humauity  and  chivalry  of  him 
who  assails  the  defenceless? — of  the  justice  of 
liim  who  taxes  a  class  with  the  faults  of  individu- 
als, and  wounds  with  that  meanest  of  weapons, — 
a  sneer  '. — or  of  the  Christianity  of  him  who  in- 
directly censures  and  ridicules  one  of  thearrange- 
aicnts  of  Providence  ? 

I  learned  my  lesson  thoroughly,  for  it  came  to 
me  in  some  shape  every  week.  I  read  it  in  every 
nrivel  and  newspaper,  and  heard  it  from  every 
lip.  The  very  men  wlio  spoke  trutli  and  sense  on 
the  subject,  sometimes  neutralized  it  by  an  idle 


jest  in  some  moment  of  levity,  and  the  jest  drove 
out  the  truth  from  my  young  heart.  At  eighteen 
I  lived  only  for  the  ignoble  purpose — I  cannot 
bear  to  say — of  getting  married ;  but  what 
could  have  been  the  ruling  wish  of  one  who  had 
been  taught  by  society  to  dread  celibacy  worse 
than  death  ?  I  dare  say  I  betrayed  it  every- 
where.    I  dare  say  I  was  duly  laughed  at. 

At  last,  quaking  on  the  verge  of  six-and- twen- 
ty, I  had  an  offer — a  most  absurd  one.  I  was 
six  years  older  than  my  lover,  had  ten  times  as 
much  sense  probably,  except  on  one  point.  I 
knew  that  he  was  "  rather  wild,"  as  the  gentle 
phrase  goes.  In  short,  I  neither  loved  nor  re- 
spected him;  but  I  was  willing  to  marry  him, 
because  then  I  should  be  Mrs.  Somebody,  and 
should  not  be  an  old  maid. 

My  parents  said  "  No,"  positively.  Of  course 
I  thought  them  unreasonable  and  cruel,  and  made 
myself  very  miserable.  Still,  it  was  something 
to  have  had  "  an  offer"  of  any  kind,  and  my  lips 
were  not  hermetically  sealed.  I  had  several  con- 
fidants, who  took  care  that  all  my  acquaintance 
should  know  the  comfortable  fact  that  I  had  re- 
fused Mr.  S. 

I  went  on  with  increasing  uneasiness  a  few 
years  longer,  not  seeking  how  to  be  useful  or  trying 
to  find  out  for  what  good  purpose  I  was  made. 
Neither  was  I  looking  for  a  companion  who  could 
sympatliize  with  my  better  aspirations  andelevate 
my  whole  character,  for  I  had  no  right  views  of 
marriage.  I  waseimjDly  gazing  about  in  anxious 
suspense  upon  every  unmarried  man  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, for  one  who  would  lift  me  out  of  that 
dismal  Valley  of  Humiliation  into  which  I  felt 
myself  descending.  Had  I  met  Apollyon  him- 
self there,  with  the  question  on  his  lips,  I  believe 
I  should  have  said  "  Yes." 

At  thirty-six  I  wore  more  pink  ribands  than 
ever,  was  seen  everywhere  that  a  respectable 
woman  could  go,  wondered  why  girls  went  into 
company  so  young,  found  that  I  was  growing 
sharp-faced  and  sharp-spoken,  and  was  becoming 
old-maidish  in  the  worse  sense  of  the  word,  be- 
cause 1  was  becoming  an  old  maid  against  my 
will.  I  forgot  that  voluntary  celibacy  never  af- 
fects the  temper. 

My  sisters,  be  it  remembered,  were  older  than 
I.  They  too  were  single.  But  they  had  lived 
more  domestic  lives  than  I,had  read  fewer  works 
of  fiction,  had  been  cultivating  their  own  na- 
tures, and  seeking  to  make  everybody  around 
them  happy.  x\nd  everybody  reverenced  them, 
and  loved  to  look  upon  their  open  pleasant  coun- 
tenances— I  mean  everybody  worth  pleasing — 
and  tliey  were  very  happy. 

At  last  our  good  parents  died,  and  left  each 


THE   VOICE   OF  THE   SEA, 


81 


of  U3  a  little  indepenJence.     Within  a  year  I 
was  married. 

I  was  married  for  my  money.  That  was  ten 
years  ago,  and  they  have  been  ten  years  of  pur- 
gatory. 

I  have  had  bad  luck  as  a  wife,  for  my  liusband 
and  I  have  scarcely  one  taste  in  common.  He 
wishes  to  live  in  the  country,  which  I  hate.  I  like 
the  thermometer  at  75  deg.,  which  he  hates.  He 
likes  to  liave  the  children  brought  up  at  liomo 
instead  of  school,  which  I  hate.  I  like  music, 
and  want  to  go  to  concerts,  which  he  hates.  He 
likes  roast  pork,  which  I  hate,  and  I  like  minced 
veal,  which  he  hates.  There  is  but  one  thing 
which  we  both  like,  and  that  is  what  we  cannot 
both  have,  though  we  are  always  trying  for  it, — 
the  last  word. 

I  have  had  bad  luck  as  a  mother,  for  two  such 
huge,  selfish,  passionate,  unmanageable  boys  nev- 
er tormented  a  feeble  woman  since  boys  began 
I  wish  I  had  called  them  both  Cain.  At  this 
moment  they  have  just  quarreled  over  their 
marbles.  Mortimer  has  torn  off  Orville's  collar, 
and  Orville  has  applied  his  coltlike  heel  to  Mor- 
timer's ribs  ;  while  the  baby  Zenobia,  in  my  lap, 


who  never  sleep3  more  than  a  half  an  hour  at  a 
time,  and  cries  all  the  time  she  is  awake,  has 
been  roused  by  their  din  to  scream  in  chorus. 

I  have  had  bad  luck  as  a  housekeeper,  for  I 
never  kept  even  a  chambermaid  more  than  three 
weeks  And  as  to  cooks,  I  look  back  bewildered 
on  the  long  phantasmagora  of  faces  flitting  storm- 
ily  through  my  kitchen,  as  a  mariner  remembers 
a  rapid  succession  of  thunderbolts  and  hurricanes 
in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  My  new  chambermaid 
boimced  out  of  the  room  yesterday,  flirting  her 
duster  and  muttering,  "  Real  old  maid,  after  all !" 
just  because  I  showed  her  a  table  on  which  I 
could  write  "  slut,"  with  my  finger,  in  the  dust. 
I  never  see  ray  plump,  happy  sisters,  and  then 

glance  in  the  mirror  at  my  own  cadaverous, long 

doleful   visage,    without  wishing  myself  an  old 

maid.    I  do  it  every  day  of  ray  life. 

Yet  half  of  ray  sex  marry  as  I  did  ; — not  for 

love,  but  fear !— for  fear  of  dying  old  maids. 
They  have  their  reward.     And  they  whose  idle 

tongues  create   this  mischievous  fear,  and  thus 

make  so  much  domestic  misery,  have  their  re 

sponsibility. 


THE   VOICE    OF    THE    SEA 


BY     I  .     C  R  A  13 


What  are  the  bright  waves  saying, 

As  they  dance  along  the  sand, 
Wirh  a  mnrmiir  like  minaled  voices 

Breaslied  from  a  far  off  strand  1 
Woo  they  the  passing  l)reezes. 

That  o'er  tliem  softly  stray  ? 
Witli  their  murmurins;,  lulling  mnsic, 

What  do  the  bright  waves  say  1 

They  tell  of  the  sea  girt  islands. 

Like  gems  on  its  heaving  breast. 
Where  the  flow  of  the  rippling  waters 

Soothes  the  waking  wind  to  rest — 
Of  the  waves  when  solftly  creeping 

O'er  sands  of  dazzling  white. 
Where  pearls  are  unheeded  glistening, 

In  the  cold  and  calm  moonlight. 

What  are  the  billows  saying. 

As  they  foam,  and  rush,  and  roar. 
With  a  sound  like  the  bnisting  thunder, 

To  dash  on  the  rocky  shore  ? 
Chide  they  the  tempest  howling, 

As  they  rock  beneath  its  sway  ? 
With  their  harsh  and  thund'ring  voices, 

What  do  the  billows  say  1 


They  speak  of  the  storm-worn  barrier:, — 

Of  the  dark  and  dismal  caves, 
Where  the  lond  waves  meet  the  echoes, 

And  the  wild  wind  wilder  raves — 
Of  the  hurricane  madly  sweeping 

O'er  ocean  swelling  dark, 
And  striking  down  with  liis  rushing  >ving 

The  pride  of  the  struggling  bark, 

Of  its  thousand  voices,  mocking 

And  drowning  the  words  of  i)rayer — 
While  they  mingle  the  shriek  of  ang'iiah 

With  the  curse  of  wild  despair. 
But  it  speaks  of  Him,  who  selteth 

To  the  mijlity  deep  its  bound. 
And  who,  with  a  zone  of  waters, 

Hath  girdled  the  earth  around. 

Go,  when  the  tempest  swelleth. 

When  the  billows  rush  and  roar  ; 
Bid  them  >ield  to  thee,  their  monarch, 

Then  bow,  and  His  might  adore. 
They  speak  in  their  calm,  quiet  beauty, 

Of  Him  whom  the  waves  obey'd— 
Whose  voice  hnsh'd  the  winds  to  silence. 

When  trembling  disciples  pray'd. 


HALF-WAY  PEOPLE. 


BT      FRANCES      BROWN, 


It  is  an  old  proverb,  that  "  extremes  are  dan- 
gerous." Every  village  schoolboy  can  at  least 
repeat,  that  "  all  overlies  are  vice  ;"  and  from 
one  generation  to  another  men  have  commended 
the  virtue  of  moderation.  Doubtless  all  this  is  the 
language  of  experience ;  the  world  has  had  many 
warnings  against  ultras,  written  in  strange  char- 
acters and  hard  to  be  forgotten.  History  has 
prolonged,  ages  have  renewed  them,  with  much 
cost  but  little  profit  to  the  nations,  and  tradition 
has  compressed  their  memories  into  those  old 
saws  and  maxims  that  form  the  short-hand  phi- 
losophy of  the  people.  No  marvel  that  the 
via  media  was  so  earnestly  recommended  to  the 
attention  of  mankind,  by  most  of  their  numerous 
instructors,  many  an  age  since  and  before  the 
Latin  sages  named  it.  If  there  be  little  to  be 
learned  or  hoped  for,  it  has  also  less  of  peril  and 
endurance  than  those  far-leading  paths  that  wind 
away  through  shine  and  shadow  to  goals  which 
travelers  little  dream  of  on  their  entrance. 

Many  pass  their  days  in  this  path  of  security, 
but  few  there  be  that  find  it  for  themselves; 
some  are  born  to  it;  nature  weighs  the  compo- 
nents of  their  characters  like  a  conscientious 
shopkeeper,  determined  to  give  neither  too  little 
nor  too  much,  and  turns  them  out  of  the  scales 
nice  weight  for  the  world,  and  no  more.  They 
never  do  anything  extraordinary,  but  live  and  die 
respectable  people  in  their  station,  and  are  for 
the  most  part  tolerably  prosperous.  Others  are 
fenced  in  by  their  fortunes,  that  rise  like  a  wall 
on  either  hand  to  keep  their  doings  moderate, 
till  they  learn  to  hope  and  wish  and  think,  in 
moderation  too.  There  are  some  that  choose  the 
middle  path  for  action,  from  a  dread  of  the  perils 
they  might  meet  beyond  in  slippery  places,  to 
which  their  dreams  go  out  continually,  and  they 
would  follow  them  if  tliey  could  but  venture. 
These  are  men  of  untried  plans  and  schemes, 
who  give  suggestions  to  more  daring  minds,  but 
.are  never  remarkable,  and  rarely  satisfied.  Fear 
is  the  ballast  of  such  barks  ;  a  mighty  comptrol- 
ler, and  one  to  which  society  owes  both  grudge 
and  gratitude ;  but  there  are  lives  over  which  it 
exercises  a  more  ungracious  influence.  In  every 
age  and  land,  among  all  ranks,  how  many  varieties 


of  character  may  there  be  found  whose  failures  in 
the  concerns  of  this  world,  and  some  that  stretch 
into  the  next,  are  traceable  to  the  cowardly  habit 
of  going  only  half-way.  Farther  on  there  is  in 
variably  a  lion  in  one  shape  or  other,  some  bar- 
rier they  cannot  pass,  some  step  too  wide  for 
them  to  take,  be  it  ever  so  requisite;  and  before 
that  always  paltry  and  often  imaginary  danger, 
their  own  interests,  honor,  or  duty,  and  frequent- 
the  harvest  of  other  lives,  are  abandoned. 

Reader,  if  your  stars  have  ever  been  so  un- 
friendly as  to  connect  you  in  any  fasliion  with  a 
character  of  this  description,  the  pleasures  of 
memory  are  not  likely  to  consist  in  a  recurrence 
to  the  subject;  but  hoping  better  things,  it  may 
be  instructive  to  study  the  motions  of  half-way 
goers  in  general.  Public  and  private  history 
abounds  with  them,  and  they  always  cut  a  shabby 
figure,  though  appearance  is  their  standing 
idol. 

A  half-way  friend  is  the  most  brittle  reed  that 
ever  humanity  leaned  on  ;  other  friendships  may 
be  broken  by  quarrels,  estranged  by  absence,  or 
weighed  in  the  balance  of  adversity  and  found 
wanting,  but  his  remains  a  perpetual  deficiency. 
Give  him  your  confidence,  and  expect  his  in  re- 
turn, there  will  be  something  he  won't  believe, 
and  something  he  will  keep  back,  though  ten 
chances  to  one  but  that  point  is  necessary  to  the 
proper  understanding  of  the  whole  ;  depend  upon 
him  for  an  obligation,  and  it  may  be  forthcoming, 
but  at  some  difficulty,  half-way  in  the  business, 
hh  services  will  make  a  final  pause,  and  neither 
persuasion  nor  necessity  will  ever  induce  them  to 
advance  farther.  In  danger  or  dispute  he  takes 
just  half  your  part,  thereby  at  once  embroiling 
himself,  and  giving  advantage  to  the  enemy.  In 
defence  of  his  friend  he  goes  far  enough  for  listen- 
ers to  say,  "  what  efforts  at  whitewa.ihing  !"  but 
suppresses  the  acquitting  evidence,  on  account  of 
some  paltry  self-committal  which  it  might  in- 
volve. 

There  is  a  ludicrous  instance  of  this  kind  of 
friendship  recorded  of  Sir  Richard  Steele,  the 
celebrated  colleague  of  Addison,  in  Tattler  and 
Spectator  times.  He  had  shown  much  friendship 
to  the  unhappy  Savage,  the  poet,  but  after  a 


HALF-WAY    PEOPLE. 


8B 


variety  of  services,  and  some  duration  of  intimacy, 
it  at  length  stuck  fast,  some  say,  on  the  point  of 
introducing  liim  to  the  Secretary  of  State,  with 
whom  Steele  was  on  friendly  terms ;  others,  on 
that  of  obliging  him  with  a  trifling  loan;  but 
certain  it  is,  that  the  refusal  so  fiir  exaspera- 
ted tliai  luckless  poet— whose  nature,  par- 
taking; somewhat  of  his  name,  was  still  more 
vulgarzied  by  the  lower  vices  of  civilization — 
that  he  pursued  him  round  and  round  his  own 
apartment  with  a  drawn  sword  ;  such  weapons 
being  assigned  to  gentlemen  by""  the  barbarism  of 
the  reigning  fashion :  and  the  consequences  might 
have  been  tr\gical,  had  not  the  cries  of  Sir  Rich- 
ard brought  all  within  hearing  to  his  rescue.  The 
conduct  of  Charles  the  First  towards  the  Earl  of 
Strafford  is  a  fatal  example  of  half-part-taking 
friendships.  It  is  said  to  have  caused  the  last 
regret  of  that  ill-starred  and  worse  guided  mon-  I 
arch.  Yet  how  many  royal  friends  have  acted 
exactly  similar ! 

Among  the  trials  consequent  on  the  insurrection 
of  Robert  Emmet,  in  1803,  was  that  of  a  Dublin 
gentleman,  the  only  witness  against  whom  was  a 
common  informer,  unfortunately  corrobborated  by 
strong  circumstantial  evidence.  His  intimate 
friend,  a  Quaker  merchant,  appeared  in  his  favor ; 
but,  to  the  surprise  of  all  who  heard  him,  though 
evidently  most  anxious  to  do  all  in  his  power  for 
the  prisoner,  his  testimony  was  so  wavering 
and  defective,  that  the  jury  refused  to  credit  it, 
and  his  friend  was  convicted.  Many  years  after, 
when  the  near  approach  of  death  gave  things, 
perhaps  on  both  sides  of  the  grave,  a  truer  aspect, 
the  merchant  revealed  a  fact  that  had  long  hung 
on  his  conscience  and  memory,  namely,  that  there 
were  at  the  period  of  the  trial  letters  in  his  pos- 
session, which,  if  read  in  court,  must  have  excul- 
pated the  accused ;  but  as  they  would  also  have 
unfolded  his  unsuccessful  courtship  of  a  lady,  in 
the  language  of  his  sect,  belonging  to  the  vain 
world,  neither  his  vanity  nor  his  religious  reputa- 
tion would  permit  him  to  disclose  them. 

Let  all  ladies  who  have  hearts  to  lose  or  break 
— and  there  are  different  opinions  regarding  their 
numbers — beware  of  half-way  lovers.  If  there 
be  no  hindrance  in  the  case,  no  obstacle  to  be 
surmounted,  no  years  to  wait  or  toil  through ; 
but  funds,  kindred,  and  the  world's  approbation 
all  convenient,  their  affections  may  rise  to  the 
easy  standard,  and  appear  perfect,  after  the  fash- 
ion of  untried  things ;  but  few  courses  are  so 
clear,  and  any  impediment  is  sufficient  to  bar 
their  progress.  Swains  of  this  pattern  never  ad- 
vance beyond  their  own  ea.se,  interest  or  vanity, 
(in  some  one  of  the  last  mentioned  they  are  al- 
ways particularly  strong.)  and  there  lies  their  ne 


phis  ultra.  The  moralist  cannot  mark  their  do- 
ings with  the  black  brand  of  vice  ;  but,  justly 
considereil,  they  are  scarce  le.-=s  degrading  in  their 
selfish  security,  which  pauses  at  no  sacrifice  but 
its  own 

Swift  could  address  some  of  his  best  verses,  and 
most  of  his  confidential  letters,  to  Stella,  whom 
he  called  the  consolation  of  his  life,  when  her  days 
were  numbered  ;  but  because  the  world  considered 
that  the  aiimired  dean  should  find  a  higher  matcl', 
he  offered  up  the  woman's  years  piecemeal  to  its 
opinion,  and  the  world  pronounced  a  just  verdict 
on  his  cringing  vanity,  by  deserting  his  latter  days, 
and    stigmatizing  his  memory.     Well  was  the 
censure    merited !     Poems   and   French   letters 
about  love  and  destiny  \\  ere  written  to  Vanessa 
also,  but  never  an  intimation  of  his  private  mar- 
riage with  her  rival,  the  public  and  gentlemanly 
acknowledgment  of  which  would  have  saved  his 
biography  some  sad  and  shameful  pages  ;  but 
that  single  step  to  the  right  was  not  taken,  and 
the  consequences,  as  well  as  the  odes  and  epistles, 
remain  on  record,  to  make  posterity  regret  that 
affection  should  have  been  so  far  misplaced,  and 
genius  so  miserably  employed.     There  are  and 
have  been  Swifts,  possessed  of  neither  the  talents 
nor  the  celebrity  that  failed  to  make  the  Dean 
respectable,  but  never  a  whit  less  paltry  in  their 
doings.     The    world's   bondmen !     The   serfs   of 
circumstances,  whose  inclinations  shrink  from  op- 
position, and  tremble  to  miss  advantage,  without 
resolution  enough  to  strive  boldly  with  the  one 
or  make  barter  with  the  other. 

Lord   Chesterfield's  behavior  to   Dr.  Johnson 
was  a  curious  sample  of  the  half-way  friend.  The 
plan  of  Johnson's  Dictionary  was  presented  to  his 
lordship,  and  received  with  his  wonted  grace ;  but 
he  quietly  allowed  the  author  to  strive  through 
seven  years  of  labor  and  difficulties,  till  his  work 
was   on  the  eve  of  publication,  and  had  been 
spoken  of  at  court.   Then  the  master  of  etiquette 
awoke,  and  published  no  less  than  two  articles  in 
The  World — then  at  the  head  of  periodical  litera- 
tm'e — filled  with  his  and  the  age's  compliments 
to  the  great  lexicographer.     "  After  making  great 
professions,  he  had  for  many  years  taken  no  no- 
tice of  me  ;  but  when  my  Dictionary  was  coming 
out,  he  fell  a  scribbling  in   T/ic  World  about  it,' 
was  the  characteristic  observation  of  Johnson ;  ami 
one  passage  in  the  letter  he  addressed  to  Lord 
Chesterfiehl  on  the    subject  is  worthy  to  outlast 
all  the  nobleman's  epistles  of  small  advice.  "  The 
notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of 
my  talents,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind  ;  but 
it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  can- 
pot  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  im- 
part it ;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it." 


84 


THE   SPIRIT   LAND. 


There  are  half-way  enemies,  too, — creatures 
■who  keep  the  grudge,  and  show  it  under  every 
possible  pretext;  generally  preferring  times  of 
calamity  for  that  purpose,  but  never  daring  to 
come  to  open  opposition,  on  account  of  something 
that  might  be  said  or  lost.  Such  an  enemy  was 
the  mother  of  Christian  the  Seventh  of  Denmark, 
to  his  unlucky  English  queen,  Matilda,  when,  af- 
ter a  long  course  of  petty  annoyance  and  surveil- 
lance of  her  daughter-in  law — neither  the  wisest 


nor  most  fortunate  of  ladies — she  hurried  to  her 
son's  chamber  in  tears,  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
royal  ball,  and  told  him  it  was  his  painful  but 
imperative  duty,  for  the  honor  of  the  Danish 
crown,  to  sign  a  warrant  for  the  queen's  imme- 
diate arrest.  That  warrant  was  put  in  force  before 
the  last  of  the  festive  lights  were  extinguished  in 
the  palace.  Swords  have  hung  by  hairs,  ay, 
and  descended,  in  more  kingly  mansions  than  that 
of  Dionysius. 


THE    SPIKIT   LAND. 


BY      SAKAH     E 


ANNAN 


0  where  is  the  Spirit  Land  ? 
I  hear  of  that  land,  I  dream  of  that  land, 
Of  the  beautiful  ones — the  shining  band — 

That  bask  in  His  glory  there — 
Of  the  blood-washed  throng  in  their  robes  of 

white. 
With  beautiful  harps,  and  their  crowns  of  light, 
Glittering  with  jewels  rare. 

0  where  is  the  Spirit  Land  ? 
The  nightless  land,  where  flowers  never  die. 
But  eternally  bloom  'neath  a  sunless  sky. 

And  drink  of  the  crystal  stream — 
The  river  that  flows  fr(>m  the  great  white  throne 
Of  God,  and  the  Lamb  that  sitteth  thereon  ; 

Fi'om  where  rays  of  glory  beam. 

A  loved  one  is  in  that  land. 
"  My  daughter,  I  go  to  the  Spirit  Land  ; 
The  valley  is  dark,  but  a  winged  band 

Is  waiting  to  bear  me  home. 
An  angel  is  near — 'tis  ray  youngest  born — 
The  night  is  dark,  but  it  soon  will  be  morn — 

Jesus — Saviour — I  come." 


"  Dear  mother,  where  is  that  land  ?" 
She  answered  me  not — and  I  thought  that  now. 
As  I  lay  back  a  curl  from  her  marble  brow, 

She  peacefully,  sweetly  slept. 
I  kissed  her  cheek — 'twas  as  cold  as  the  breath 
Of  winter's  king — then  I  knew  'twas  death. 

And  I  laid  me  down  and  wept. 

Then,  where  is  the  Spirit  Land  ? 
Oh,  I  long  and  long  to  follow  her  there — 
To  the  land  more  bright,  and  the  sky  more  fair, 

And  join  in  the  angel  choir, 
'Mong  the  heaven-born  ones  as  they  float  around ; 
While  the  arches  again  and  again  resound 

With  notes  of  the  angel  lyre. 

0  where  is  the  Spirit  Land  ? 
Would  that  angel  wings  were  given  to  me. 
Then  I,  in  robes  of  immortality. 

Would  fly  to  the  happy  land. 
But  I  know  that  when  death's  cold  waves  roll 

o'er, 
I'll  be  borne  to  that  Land,  that  happy  shore, 
By  a  bright  and  shining  band. 


REV    SAMUEI-  H.  COX,  D.  D. 


THE   RIGHT    SIDE    FOR   THE   BRIDE 


(WITH   A   PORTRAIT   OF   THE  AUTHOR.) 


BT      SAMUEL      HANSON      COX,     D.D. 


In  the  ceremony  of  marriage,  how  should  the 
parties  stand,  as  rehited  to  each  other.  Ought 
the  bride  to  occupy  the  right  side  of  the  groom, 
or  the  left  ? 

This  question,  though  confessedly  not  of  the 
•  most  important  class,  is  still  considerable.  What- 
ever is  -worth  doing  at  all,  is  worth  doing  well, 
says  the  proverb  ;  and"  a  higher  authority  pub- 
lishes the  universal  canon,  Let  all  things  be  done 
decently  and  in  order.  Indeed,  some  clerical 
scholars,  and  in  theology  chieftains,  err  sometimes, 
by  that  studied  contempt  for  little  things,  which 
is  the  result  of  no  wisdom,  and  which  may  be- 
come itself  great,  by  the  evils  it  occasions.  If 
there  be  a  right,  in  reference  to  the  question,  it 
may  argue  no  part  of  our  wit  or  our  virtue  to  be 
superior  to  its  investigation  and  observance. 

Marriage  is  an  ordinance  of  God.  It  was  made 
for  the  first  man  and  the  first  woman.  Its  origin 
was  paradise.  It  is  neither  a  human,  nor  a  civil, 
nor  a  modern  institution,  simply  and  alone.  Its 
jurisdiction  is  over  all  the  species  ;  its  duration, 
all  time ;  its  due  honor,  the  welfare  and  the  cri- 
terion of  society. 

But  to  the  question. — Our  position  is,  that 
the  bride  ought,  in  all  cases  of  honorable  mar- 
riage, to  stand,  by  his  promotive  act,  on  the  right 
side  of  her  husband,  in  the  ceremonial  scene  of 
their  nuptials. 

Arguments  for  the  left  side  we  have  never 
seen.  Those  that  would  sometimes  claim  or 
seem  to  be  such,  are  the  following 

1.  "  The  left  side  is  nearer  the  heart  ?"  If  this 
nonsense  were  worth  refuting,  we  could  say,  he 
is  nearer  her  heart  when  she  stands  at  his  right 
side ;  and  if  this  consideration  does  not  neutral- 
ize the  plea,  making  it  as  broad  as  it  is  long,  it 
does  more — since  it  is  so  important  that  he  should 
have  the  first  place  of  all  creatures  in  her  aflfec- 
tions.     But  the  adage  is  only  nonsense. 

2.  "  He  can  reach  her  better  on  the  left  V  This 
objection  is  practically  nothing,  or  rather  it  is 
positively  false.  It  is  not  natural  or  forward  to 
put  the  right  hand  toward  the  left,  as  it  is  to  ex- 


tend it  in  the  rectitude  of  its  own  direction.  This, 
too,  is  scenically  better.  He  does,  and  appears 
to  do,  all  the  reaching.  He  takes  her  hand,  and 
he  holds  it;  and  this  is  symmetrically  seen, 
and  ever  prominent,  in  the  spectacle.  Experience 
demonstates  the  case,  the  nature,  ami  even  the 
elegance,  with  which  a  well-bred  person,  in  the 
action  of  his  marriage  vows,  before  God,  can  take 
the  hand  of  his  loved  lady,  in  a  way  of  the  most 
delicate  and  refined  propriety,  as  it  regards  her 
sufferance,  and  retain  it  indicatively,  till  the  so- 
lemnity is  consummated. 

3.  "  He  is  her  head."  Is  he  ?  And  therefore 
he  ought  to  be  meanly  jealous  of  his  rights,  and 
prompt  to  remind  her  and  others  of  them,  in  the 
very  solemnization  of  their  glad  espousals;  and 
therefore  he  should  degrade  iier  from  the  glory 
of  a  wife's  dignity,  by  consigning  her  to  the  left 
side  of  him  ! — and  therefore  it  is  worthy  of  his 
magnanimity,  on  the  superb  occasion,  to  eclipse 
his  lovely  bride,  and  put  her  into  a  state  of  occul- 
tation,  that  himself  may  be  conspicuous  as  the 
head  of  a  icoman  and  the  lustrous  orb  of  the  pic- 
ture !     The  left  side  is  the  wrong  side. 

4.  "But  it  is  usage."  Not  always.  Custom 
varies  all  over  the  world.  Opinions  vary,  as  led 
by  caprice,  mistaken  fashion,  taste,  ignorance,  in- 
difference, irreligion,  or — no  one  can  tell  what. 

5.  "  But  Victoria  stood  on  the  left  of  Prince  Al- 
bert!"  Did  she?  Well!  there  may  be  many 
a  right  thing  which  the  Queen  of  England  never 
did,  and  never  knew,  and  never  considered. 

One  consideration  there  is,  which,  with  us,  is 
both  paramount  and  conclusive.  We  will  state 
it  somewhat  at  large.  Let  queens  and  princes 
clear  the  way  for  it.  It  is  the  grand  honor  o 
marriage,  the  best  and  richest  illustration  both  o 
its  nature  and  its  dignity,  that  the  parlies  in  the 
scene  are,  in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  beautifully 
viewed  as  the  types  of  Christ  and  the  church 
He  that  hath  the  bride  is  the  bridtgrooin.  The 
churcli  is  called  the  bride,  the  Lamb's  vnfc.  The 
parallel  obtain-;  throughout  the  inspired  volume. 
It  is  now  an  allusion,  now  a  metaphor,  now  an 


86 


THE   RIGHT   SIDE   FOR   THE   BRIDE. 


allegory,  always  a  comparison.  In  Ephesians  5  : 
22 — 33,  it  is  extensively  treated.  It  is  implied 
in  the  scenery  of  eternal  judgment,  ^latt  25  :  31 
— i6,  collated  with  1  —  13,  and  22 :  1—14.  Rev. 
19  :  7—9.  The  Book  of  Canticles,  could  it  only 
be  translated  perfectly,  would  appear  to  be  a 
poetical  epithalamium,  referring  ultimately  to 
the  Lord  of  glory  and  the  church  of  his  love  in 
their  eternal  espousals  ;  itself  incomparably  ap- 
propriate, rich,  instructive,  and  delightful. 

But  how  marked,  in  the  picturesque  of  every 
6cene,  is  the  position  of  the  bride  !  The  right 
hand  is  auspicious,  as  the  place  of  honor,  of  pro- 
motion, of  conspicuity,  and  of  delight.  And  she 
is  stationed,  in  glory  and  attraction  pre-eminent, 
on  his  right  hand — the  moral  centre  of  the  scene, 
the  radiation  of  his  similitude,  the  reflection  of 
his  glory.  And  is  his  dignity  lessened,  or  his 
lieadship  obscured,  as  the  consequence  ?  Is  his 
majesty  impaired,  or  his  worship,  or  the  honor  of 
his  name,  or  the  love  of  his  subjects  ?  Does  his 
bride  abuse  his  favor,  or  usurp  his  prerogatives  ? 
We  can  see  nothing  but  propriety  and  order  and 
loveliness,  in  such  a  substantial  pageant  of  celes- 
tial grandeur  and  significance. 

"Where  marriage  is  duly  honored,  the  sex  is 
duly  honored.  Where  woman  is  duly  honored, 
human  nature  is  duly  honored  ;  that  is,  man  is 
elevated,  society  is  improved,  virtue  is  illustrious, 
and  religion  predominates. 

The  forty-fifth  Psalm  is  a  song  of  loves,  com- 
posed, it  is  thought,  on  occasion  of  the  marriage 
of  Solomon  with  an  Egyptian  princess.  But 
a  greater  than  Solomon,  or  than  the  daughter  of 
Pharaoh,  is  there.  It  refers  not  obscurely  to  the 
second  Adam,  and  the  Eve  of  his  eternal  compan- 
ionship, in  the  paradise  of  God ;  to  them  as  the 
worthy  and  the  eternal  archetypes  of  the  mar- 
ried relation.  The  theme  is  rapturous,  and  in- 
spires the  poetry  of  the  devout  Psalmist.  My 
heart,  he  says,  is  inditing  a  good  matter.  I  speak 
of  the  things  which  I  have  made  touching  the  king. 
My  tongue  is  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer.  Tlieu  the 
marriage  is  descriptively  solemnized.  The  king  in 
bis  glory  appears  not  alone,  but  his  incomparable 
consort  with  him.  And  her  position  is  defined  in 
the  scene  ;  it  is  said,  with  emphasis  and  poetry, 
in  the  graphic  picture — On  his  right  hand  did 
stand  the  queen,  in  gold  of  Ophir.  She  could  not 
mistake  her  place  in  the  group  of  glory. 

The  right  hand,  with  all  the  oriental  nations 
was  the  place  also  of  good  omens,  and  the  symbol 
of  prosperity.  Of  this — to  omit  many  others — 
we  have  an  example  in  the  book  of  Luke,  1:11. 
The  father  of  the  holy  harbinger  of  Christ  was 
officiating  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  temple  as  the 
priest  of  God,  when  there  appeared   to  him  an 


angel  of  the  Lord,  standing  on  the  right  side  of 
the  altar  of  incense.  If  his  mission  had  been  to  de- 
nounce the  judgments  of  God,  instead  of  herald- 
ing his  mercy  and  salvation,  he  would  have  appear- 
ed  on  the  left  side  of  the  altar.  Zacharias  therefore 
offended  against  the  typical  significance  of  the 
scene  in  his  unbelieving  fear,  and  was  rebuked  by 
the  heavenly  messenger.  I  am  Gabriel,  that 
stand  in  the  presence  of  God,  and  am  sent  to  speak 
to  thee,  and  to  show  thee  these  glad  tidings.  And  he 
sentented  him  to  he  dumb  till  they  were  accom- 
plished. 

The  scene  of  marriage  is  one  of  joy  and  glad- 
ness, as  well  as  of  solemnity  and  worship.  Hence 
all  sinister  or  left-handed  associations  should  be 
withdi'awn  from  it ;  and  those  of  dexti'ous  and 
happy  implication  should  alone  replace  them. 
And  every  way  we  argue,  as  the  bridegroom  is 
the  head  and  the  master  of  the  occasion,  that  his 
bride  should  be  by  him  promoted  to  the  place  of 
honor,  of  prosjjcrous  indication  and  happy  asso- 
ciations— unless  he,  is  ashamed  of  her,  or  jealous 
for  his  headship  particularly,  or  forgetful  of  the 
grand  symbolic  import  of  marriage,  or  careless 
of  all  elegant  and  religious  proprieties,  or  inca- 
pable of  sentiment  and  moral  beauty,  or,  finally, 
one  of  those  democratic  or  autocratic  simpletons, 
who  will  do  wrong  in  order  to  show  their  own 
independence,  and  "  do  some  things  as  well  as  oth- 
ers," or  be  "  as  free  as  some  folks." 

Other  arguments,  of  a  subordinate  character, 
might  be  easily  adduced.  With  respect  to  polite- 
ness and  fashion,  however,  we  have  something  to 
say.  These  will  often  govern  the  world  when  all 
nobler  authorities  are  powerless.  In  a  far  second- 
ary place,  we  suppose  them  only  corroborative, 
however,  of  our  position  here ;  that  is,  in  their 
proper  or  their  best  elements  of  influence. 

For  four  hundred  years  after — and,  indeed  even 
earlier  than — the  Norman  Conquest,  and  in  their 
consequences  to  this  day,  the  urbanity  and  the 
court  manners  of  Europe  were  regulated,  direct- 
ly or  indirectly,  by  the  spirit  and  the  laws  of 
chivalry.  It  is  but  lately,  indeed,  that  it  has 
generally — nor  yet  totally — ceased  to  be  fashion- 
able for  a  well-bred  gentleman  to  wear  a  sword, 
as  a  part  of  his  ornamental  dress  for  a  drawing- 
room,  a  royal  levee,  or  other  social  occasions  of 
display.  But  who  ever  dreamed  of  the  incon- 
gruity, not  to  say  the  indignity,  standing  or  w.alk- 
ing  with  a  lady,  to  place  her  and  his  sword  to- 
gether on  the  left  side?  When,  however,  she  is 
positioned  in  the  living  tableau,  where  she  ought 
to.  be,  on  his  right,  and  his  sword  on  the  left, 
they  are  both  comparatively  safe  and  at  ease,  se- 
cure from  accidents  and  awkwardnesses  of  a 
peculiar  but  ineffable  description.     Should  he 


THE   MINSTEELST   OF   NATURE. 


87 


also  have  occasion  to  draw  the  gleaming  weapon, 
it  acts  or  flames  in  front  of  the  lady,  to  lier  innox- 
ious, as  the  armor  of  her  jjroper  champion,  for 
sallies  of  defensive  or  ofTensive  demonstration,  at 
once  her  avenger  and  her  shield.  Gentlemen  of 
the  army  and  the  navy  wear  swords  profession- 
ally ;  and  to  all  these,  the  propriety  of  the  sword 
on  one  side,  the  lady  on  the  other,  and  the  man 
of  fidelity  and  honor  between  them,  is  quite  ob- 
vious, altliough  "the  age  chivalry  is  gone." 

"When  a  lady  stands  or  walks  with  her  lord  on 
his  right,  lior  left  hand  properly  supports  lier 
dependence,  while  her  right  is  at  ease  and  free  for 
motion,  gesture,  and  action  of  any  sort ;  while  his 
right  arm  sustains  the  grateful  incumbent  in  a 
way  of  facile  preference  and  nature. 

Again,  in  all  the  world  the  usage  of  sentiment 


has  made  the  dexter  side  preferable  for  honor, 
politeness,  and  address.  Our  native  language 
attests  its  superiority.  It  is  the  right  side ;  and 
rectitude  in  idea  alone  could  have  suggested  the 
epithet,  now  universal  in  our  Aglo-Saxon  tongue, 
as  well  as  indelible,  "  express,  and  admirable." 
|i  The  other  is  the  left — because  we  pretermit  or 
I  leave  it ;  implying  inferiority,  dereliction,  obli- 
;  vion :  more  suited  to  one  left,  neglected  or  for- 
gotten, sine  ape,  than  to  the  state  of  a  chosen  bride 
in  the  scenery  of  her  espousals,  by  the  side  of 
her  beloved,  in  the  crisis  of  her  joys,  and  while 
honorably  typifying  the  glorious  church  of 
Christ  as  she  shall  be  presented  to  himself,  with 
the  gratulation  of  angelic  witnesses,  in  the  heaven 
of  heavens. 


THE   MINSTRELSY   OF   NATURE. 


The  minstrelsy  of  nature's  ever  heard :  i 

In  the  moist  bosom  of  the  quickening  Spring,    I 
"When  snow-drops  burst,  and  th'  awakening  bird. 

From  winter's  torjjor  on  rejoicing  wing 
Mounts  heavenward  singing  ;  in  the  liquid  gush 

Of  crystal  fountains  bubbling  from  the  side 
Of  some  green  hill ;  in  the  tempestuous  rush 

Of  solemn  night-winds  eddying  far  and  wide  ; 
Through  the  sombre  forests  and  through  alleys 

green. 
Where  the  green  lizard  leaps  or  feeds  imseen. 

The  minstrelsy  of  nature, — it  is  known 

In  mellow  summer,  where  the  rills  rejoice 
Amid  the  woodland — and  the  turtle's  tone 

Its  music  mingles  with  the  bulbul's  voice  ; 
By  the  quick  rustling  of  the  forest  leaves, 

And  fall  of  early  blossoms — by  the  swing 
Of  populous  branches  when  the  tempests  rave. 

Dishevelling  their  tints ;  and  by  the  spring 
And  finny  leap  of  fish  iu  the  cool  wave, 
And  echo,  answering  from  her  inland  cave. 

The  minstrelsy  of  nature, — it  is  found. 

And  heard  in  Autumn  where  the  woodlands 
shed 
Their  venerable  foliage  on  the  ground, 

Like  the  thin  grey  locks  off  some  old  man's 
head ; 
By  the  road-side,  and  by  the  river's  bank, 

Where  the  red  robin  sings,  and  swallows  fly 
Across  the  water-brooks ;  where  nettles  rank 

Are  fading  in  the  sunbeams,  and  where  lie 
The  moth,  and  grasshopper ;  'tis  heard,  and  flings 
A  sense  of  gladness  o'er  all  earthly  things. 


The  minstrelsy  of  nature — it  is  brought 

Bv  winter  to  our  hearths  ;  and  in  the  deep 
And  stilly  midnight,  when  our  eyes  have  sought 

A  refuge  from  all  care,  and  balmy  sleep 
Locks  in  forgetfulness  our  weary  eyes, 

It  comes  upon  the  wreck-presaging  storm. 
And  shakes  our  homesteads ;  and  along  the  skies 

Peals  in  deep  thunder,  making  heaven's  cheek 
warm 
And  flushed  with  lightning ;  and  the  pelting  hail, 
Hurl'd  earthward,  reels  like  chaff  beneath  the 
flail. 

There  is  no  part  of  God's  vast  universe 

t^ntenanted,  and  therefore  no  part  free 
Of  harmony  ;  the  very  stars  reheai*se 

Their  Maker's  glory,  and  rejoice  to  be 
His  oracles :  herb,  blossom,  wood  and  dell. 

Rocks,  rivers,  mountains,  ocean,  and  the  dim 
Interminable  mther,  chant  and  swell. 

And  blend  their  myriad  tones  into  one  hymn 
And  tone  of  homage,  heard  for  evermore. 
Ascending  without  pause  from  sea  and  shore. 

And  from  the  human  heart,  the  fount  and  tlirone. 

And  temple  of  God's  worship,  oft  a  sigh, 
A  deep  low  murmur,  like  a  captive's  moan. 

In  sorrow  will  arise,  and  to  the  sky 
Appeal  for  what  the  cold  world  may  not  know ; 

Its  name  is  prayer,  and  wlien  it  is  sincere. 
In  gloom  or  gladness,  joyfulness  or  wo. 
When  speaking  through  the  lip  or  through  the 

tear, 
Whatever  shapes  it  takes,  it  has  a  spell 
To  exalt  or  to  subdue,  where'er  we  dwell. 


THE  CHRISTIAN    CATACOMBS   OF   ROME. 


BY      A     RETURNED       TRAVELER. 


Christianity  is  the  same  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end.  The  oracles  of  our  heavenly  Father, 
as  spoken  by  the  mouth  of  the  anointed  Saviour, 
have  still  the  same  voice  which  they  bore  before 
the  cross  was  set  up  on  Calvary.  The  divine 
principles  which  reveal  the  will  of  the  omnipo- 
tent and  immaculate  God,  and  which  are  pre- 
served in  his  word,  know  no  change  nor  shadow 
of  turning ;  but  the  visible  Christian  church, 
since  its  foundation  until  to-day,  has  assumed 
many  diverse  forms,  according  to  circumstances 
and  the  conviction  of  its  members.  At  first  she 
was  lowly  in  form,  humble,  peaceful,  and  meek, 
seeking  the  secluded  mountain-side  and  the  quiet 
waters  by  which  to  worship.  From  poverty  did 
God's  anointed  Son  come  forth,  and  he  preached 
salvation  to  the  poor.  Poor  and  humble  were 
the  Galilean  fishermen  who '  spread  abroad  the 
glorious  gospel  of  love  ;  and  it  was  the  poor  and 
needy  that  first  heard  and  received  the  glad 
tidings  witli  joy.  As  time  rolled  on,  however,  and 
the  rich  and  powerful  attached  themselves  to 
Christianity,  the  stately  cathedral  displaced  the 
humble  cell,  and  a  splendid  ritual  became  the 
service  of  the  the  visible  church.  No  city  in  the 
woi'ld  is  more  fruitful  of  historical  associations 
than  Rome ;  and  no  part  of  her  history  is  more 
instructive  or  interesting  than  that  of  the  Chris- 
tian church.  Lilce  her  polytheism,  which  emana- 
ted from  the  subterranean  temple  of  Census,  the  i 
Roman  church  arose  from  the  dark  and  gloomy 
catacombs ;  and  as  the  former  saw  its  crowning 
glories  in  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Olympus,  so  did 
the  latter  behold  her  greatness  in  the  St  Peter's  of 
Buonarotti.  There  is  no  more  instructive  em- 
ployment for  the  reflection  of  man,  than  to  observe 
the  development  of  any  system,  even  from  that 
of  a  grain  of  seed  to  that  of  a  grand  leading  idea ; 
the  spirit  and  nature  of  man  and  the  ways  of  Pro- 
vidence are  illustrated  in  both. 

The  great  increase  which  took  place  in  the 
magnificence  of  ancient  Rome,  during  the  latter 
times  of  the  republic,  naturally  led  to  the  forma- 
tion of  quarries  in  the  immediate  neighborhood. 
In  this  respect,  the  city  of  the  Cajsars  resembles 
many  others,  as  Paris,  Naples,  Syracuse,  and 
Alexandria,  all  more  or  less  surrounded  or  under- 


mined by  tortuous  excavations.  The  size  and 
shape  of  these  differ  according  to  the  firmness  of 
the  substratum :  at  Naples  they  are  large  and 
lofty,  but  at  Rome,  from  the  crumbling  nature  of 
the  soil,  narrow  and  low.  These  subterranean 
works  attracted  general  notice  during  the  time 
of  Augustus,  when  their  extent  rendered  them 
dangerous.  They  first  obtained  celebrity  as  the 
scene  of  the  domestic  tragedy  referred  to  by 
Cicero  in  his  oration  for  Cluentius.  The  riches 
of  Asinius,  a  yoiing  Roman  citizen,  had  excited 
the  avarice  of  Oppianicus,  who  employed  an 
accomplice  to  personate  Asinius,  and  to  execute 
a  will  in  his  name.  The  pretended  Asinius  hav- 
ing bequeathed  tlie  property  to  Oppianicus,  and 
obtained  the  signatures  of  some  strangers,  the 
true  Asinius  was  inveigled  to  the  gardens  of  the 
Esquiline,  and  precipitated  into  one  of  the  sand- 
pits. It  was  in  these  caverns  that  Nero  was  ad- 
vised to  conceal  himself,  when  terrified  by  the 
sentence  of  an  enraged  senate  ;  on  which  occasion 
he  made  answer  to  his  freedman  Phaon,  that  he 
would  not  go  under  ground  while  living.  The 
sand  obtained  from  the  Esquiline  pits  was  used 
for  making  cement ;  it  was  recommended  for 
this  purpose  by  the  the  architect  Vitruvius,  as 
preferable  to  all  other. 

The  custom  of  digging  sand  from  these  crypts 
or  galleries  being  established,  the  whole  subsoil 
on  one  side  of  Rome  was  in  course  of  time  per- 
forated by  a  network  of  excavations,  spreading 
ultimately  to  a  distance  of  fifteen  miles.  In  the 
mean  time  the  original  quarries,  exhausted  of 
their  stores,  were  appropriated  to  other  uses. 
We  must  bear  in  mind  that  at  this  date — that  is, 
about  the  close  of  the  Republic— the  Romans 
were  accustomed  to  hirn  their  dead,  excepting  a 
few  families  of  distinction,  who  prefered  Inu-ying 
them,  and  the  lowest  orders  of  the  people,  who 
were  not  able  to  procure  the  honors  of  a  funeral 
pile.  Certain  classes  of  persons,  as  those  who 
had  made  away  with  themselves,  or  had  perished 
by  the  hand  of  the  law,  were  forbidden  to  receive 
the  rites  of  incremation.  The  prohibition  was 
also  extended  to  such  as  had  been  struck  by 
lightning;  a  circimistance  seized  upon  by  Ter- 
tullian,  as  illustrative  of  the  Christian's  salvation 


THE    CHRISTIAN    CATACOMBS   OF   ROME. 


89 


from  hell,  "  He  who  has  been  touched  by  heaven- 
ly fire  is  safe  from  being  consumed  by  any  other 
flame."  For  these  persons  the  pits  left  by  the 
sand-diggei-s  on  the  Esquiline  hill  afibrded  a  con- 
venient burial-place ;  and  their  bodies  were 
thrown  in  to  putrefy,  much  to  the  annoyance  of 
the  inliabitiuits  of  that  part  of  Rome. 

It  was  probably  to  the  sand-diggers  on  the 
Esquiline  hill,  and  to  the  poor  men  who  had  been 
employed  in  scooping  out  the  cavernous  cata- 
combs, that  the  gospel  was  first  preached  at  Rome ; 
and  it  was  likely,  from  their  knowledge  of  its 
tortuosities,  that  the  pei-secuted  of  the  faith  were 
made  acquainted  with  this  city  of  refuge.  For 
many  years  did  the  faithful  find  a  precarious  re- 
fuge under  ground,  from  the  persecutions  of  which 
the  malignity  of  the  heathen  mob  or  the  malice 
of  the  heatlion  rulers  subjected  them ;  and  for 
many  generations  did  they  lay  the  bodies  of  their 
dead  in  this  subterranean  dwelling-place  of  the 
living. 

The  fact  th|it  the  catacombs  were  employed  as 
a  refuge  from  persecution,  rests  upon  good  evi- 
dence, notwithstanding  objections  founded  upon 
the  narrowness  of  the  passages,  the  difficulty  of 
supporting  life,  and  the  risk  of  discovery  incur- 
red by  seeking  concealment  in  an  asylum  so  well 
known  to  the  Pagans.  They  have  been  an  object 
of  great  interest  to  the  Chi'istian  traveler  for  many 
years,  and  aboimd  with  momiments  and  memo- 
rials of  the  faith  and  virtues  of  the  early  disciples 
of  Christ.  They  have  been  also  the  scene  of  the 
actual  martyrdom  of  some  noble  witnesses  to  the 
truth.  Xystus,  Bishop  of  Rome,  together  with 
Quartus,  one  of  his  clergy,  suffered  below  ground 
in  the  time  of  Cyprian.  Stephen,  al.'-o  Bishop  of 
Rome,  was  traced  by  heathen  soldiers  to  his  sub- 
terranean chapel :  on  the  conclusion  of  divine 
sei'vice,  he  was  thrust  back  into  his  episcopal 
chair,  and  beheaded.  The  letters  of  Christians 
then  living  refer  to  such  scenes  with  a  simplicity 
that  dispels  all  idea  of  exaggeration  :  while  their 
expectation  of  sliaring  the  same  fate  affords  a 
vivid  picture  of  those  dreadful  times. 

An  authentic  history  of  Stephen  during  his 
long  residence  in  the  catacombs,  would  be  sur- 
passed in  interest  by  few  narratives  in  the  ecclesi- 
astical archives.  Some  incidents  have  been  hand- 
ed down  to  us.  From  time  to  time  he  was  con- 
sulted by  his  clergy,  who.resorted  to  him  for 
advice  and  exhortation.  On  one  occasion,  a  lay- 
man named  Hippolytus,  himself  a  refugee,  sought 
the  bishop's  cell,  to  receive  instruction  regarding 
a  circumstance  that  preyed  upon  his  mind.  Pauli- 
na, his  heathen  sL'ter,  together  with  her  huband 
Adrian,  were  in  the  habit  of  sending  provisions 
by   their  two  children  to  Hippolytus  and  his 


companions.  The  unconverted  state  of  these  re- 
lations by  whom  his  bodily  life  was  supported, 
weighed  heavily  upon  him,  and  bv  the  advice  of 
Stephen  a  plan  was  laid  for  detaining  the  chil- 
dren, so  that  the  parents  were  forced  to  seek 
them  in  the  cavern.  Every  ai-gument  Avas  used 
by  Stephen  and  Hippolytus  to  induce  their  bene- 
factors to  embrace  the  faith,  and,  though  for  the 
time  ineffectual,  the  desired  end  was  at  length 
aooomplished.  Tradition  adds  that  they  all  suffered 
martyrdom,  and  were  buried  in  the  catacombs. 

A  visit  in  former  years  to  these  touching  scenes 
of  ancient  piety  and  faith,  left  an  impression  of  the 
grandeur  of  our  religion,  which  neither  the  pomp 
of  cathedrals,  nor  the  array  of  the  priesthood  that 
now  occupy  Rome,  ever  conveyed  Walking 
through  the  long  corridors,  the  walls  are  seen 
covred  with  inscriptions,  some  plain  and  striking, 
but  mostly  obscure  or  effaced.  These  inscriptions 
are  of  singular  interest  to  the  antiquarian  and  to 
the  historiographer,  and  are  of  no  mean  impor- 
tance in  the  discussion  of  the  form  of  the  early 
churches.  They  show  us  in  rude  but  uumistake- 
able  characers  the  meek  and  humble  spirit  of  the 
primitive  Christians  during  trial,  and  in  their 
conflicts  with  power;  and  they  gradually  appear 
as  monuments  of  the  progressive  epochs  of  the 
church  at  Rome.  The  early  Christians  had 
toleration  under  several  of  the  Roman  empe- 
rors; for,  notwithstanding  the  many  charges 
that  were  brought  against  them  by  the  Pagan 
writer?,  they  were  never  yet  accusedof  any- 
thing more  serious  than  of  worshiping  Christ, 
and  of  warring  against  the  idolatry  of  the  poly- 
theists  Between  the  Pagans  and  Christians 
there  was  an  uncompromising  difierence,  which 
the  advocates  of  Christianity  did  not  shrink,  in 
the  face  of  the  greatest  terroi-s,  from  exposing. 
Carrying  in  their  hand  the  life  they  valued  so 
cheaply,  the  martyrs  lavishly  exchanged  it  for 
the  treasures  of  eternal  glory  ;  but  besides  this, 
in  itself  an  abundant  recompense,  they  bought 
over  the  hearts  of  men.  With  such  a  price  they 
seduced  the  world  into  imitation  of  tlieir  virtues  : 
the  same  violence  that  took  heaven  by  force,  pre- 
vailed over  earth  and  vanquished  hell.  Nothing 
could  have  been  devised  better  adapted  to  dis- 
play the  power  of  the  new  faith,  than  submitting 
its  professors  to  martyrdom :  not  proof  against 
the  generous  enthusiasm  of  his  victim,  the  execu- 
tioner often  caught  the  flame ;  gazed  upon  the 
dangerous  spectacle  of  the  power  of  true  religion, 
till  his  heart  burned  within  him  ;  and,  fiiirly 
overwhelmed  by  the  trial  of  faith  and  hope,  has- 
tened to  undergo  the  death  which  his  hands  had 
inflicted  on  anotlior.  It  was  perJiaps  the  frequent 
experience  of  this  which  led  many  of  the  Pagan 


90 


THE    CIIPtlSTIAN    CATACOMBS    OF    ROME. 


officers  to  avoid  capital  punishment,  and  to  em- 
ploy the  more  efficacious  method  of  Lribes  and 
cntreatie?. 

Among  the  earliest  sufferers  in  Rome  after  the 
completion  of  the  inspired  canon,  was  Ignatius, 
\vho  was  devoured  by  beasts  in  the  Coliseum, 
A  D.  107.  Of  his  martyrdom  we  have  a  short 
narrative,  expressed  in  language  sufficiently  in- 
elegant and  obscure  to  stamp  it  as  the  work  of 
uneducated  persons ;  and  professing  to  be  the 
production  of  the  martyr's  personal  friends.  In 
addition  to  these  "Acts,"  we  have  the  epistles  of 
Ignatius  written  to  seven  churches  while  on  his 
way  to  Rome  ;  in  this  respect  he  imitated  his 
apostolic  friend,  who  had  departed  this  life  a  few 
years  earlier.  These  epistles  have  happily  come 
down  to  us  uncorrupted.  From  these  "acts"' 
and  epistles  we  learn  all  that  is  known  of  the 
last  days  of  Ignatius.  While  the  Emperor  Tra- 
jan was  passingjthrough  Antioch,  on  his  way  to 
Armenia,  he  observed  that  a  portion  of  his  sub- 
jects rendered  him  imperfect  homage,  so  that  the 
lustre  of  his  recent  victories  seemed  to  suffer 
some  diminution.  His  indignation  being  roused, 
he  issued  an  edict  commanding  the  Christians  to 
sacrifice  to  the  gods,  under  pain  of  instant  death. 
Ignatius,  fearing  for  the  church  over  which  he  was 
bishop,  presented  himself  before  Trajan,  and 
after  a  short  conversation  too  well  known  to  need 
repetition,  was  sentenced  to  death.  He  was 
placed  under  the  care  of  soldiers,  to  be  conducted 
to  Rome ;  during  the  journey  he  contrived  to 
visit  Polycarp,  his  fellow-disciple  in  the  school  of 
St.  John.  He  also  wrote  to  the  church  of  Rome, 
requesting  them  to  make  no  attempt  to  save  his 
life. 

Among  the  most  elaborately  finished  pro- 
ductions of  Ambrose,  is  the  story  of  Theodora,  a 
young  woman  of  remarkable  beauty,  who  had 
attracted  the  notice  of  the  governor  of  Antioch. 
Vainly  was  she  urged  to  renounce  Christianity  . 
threats  of  torture  failed  to  shake  her  constancy  ; 
and  when  finally  told  that  she  must  either  sacri- 
fice, or  be  publicly  disgraced,  she  calmly  an- 
swered, "  The  will  alone  is  what  God  regards." 
Being  at  length  condemned  by  the  reluctant 
governor,  she  was  led  to  the  place  of  confine- 
ment, where  she  offered  up  a  prayer  for  deliver- 
ance. A  forocious-looking  soldier  forcing  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  immediately  entered 
the  cell:  "  Shut  your  ears,"  exclaims  Ambrose 
at  this  juncture,  "  Christ's  faithful  witness  suf- 
fers; nay,  but  listen  once  more,  for  deliverance 
is  at  hand."  That  wolf's  clothing  disguises  a 
sheep;  the  man  of  arms  is  a  soldier  of  the  cross, 
bent  on  saving  his  fellow-believer  at  the  cost  of 
his  own  life.  He  quiets  her  apprehensions,  and 
proposes  to  exchange  dresses  with  her,  so  thBt 


she  may  pass  out  in  his  stead.    "  Take  the  dress 
wliich  hides  your  sex,  and  give  me  that  which 
makes  me  a  martyr;  believe  that  for  Christ's 
sake  you  wear  this  heathen  habit.    Be  this,"  he 
continues,  putting  upon  her  his  armor,  '•  be  this 
your    breast-plate    of  righteousness,   this    your 
shield  of  faith,  and  this  your  helmet  of  salvation. 
But,  above  all,  as  you  go  out,  hide  your  face,  and 
let  no  thought  of  my  fate  cause  you  to  turn  your 
head  ;  if  tempted  to  look  back,  remember  Lot's 
wife."     Theodora  escaped  in  safety,  leaving  the 
generous  Didymus  within.  The  next  who  entered 
discovered  the  change  of  the  prisoner  ;  but,  unable 
to  explain  the  mystery,  attributed  it  to  a  miracle. 
The  circumstance  was  soon  reported  to  the  govern- 
or.and  Didymus  sentenced  to  execution.  Eut  Theo- 
dora, hearing  of  his    apprehension,  ran    to  the 
place  of  punishment,  and  hastened   to   dispute 
with  him  the  crown  of  martyrdom.    "I  will  not 
be  guilty  of  your  death,"  she  exclaimed  :  "  I  con- 
sented that  you  should  preserve  my  honor,  but 
not  my  life.     If  you  deprive  me  of  the  crown  of 
martyrdom,  you  will  have  deceived  me."     Two 
contended,  both  triumphed  :  the  crown  was  not 
divided,  but  conferred  on  each. 

The  fame  of  the  catacombs  as  a  repository  of 
martyrs'  ashes  early  spread  throughout  Christen- 
dom, and  attracted  to  Rome  many  admirers  of 
relics.  Among  these  was  Aurelius  Clemens  Pru- 
dentius,  a  native  of  Saragossa,  who,  about  A.D.  880, 
traveled  from  Spain  to  Rome,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  visiting  the  catacombs ;  and  whose  en- 
thusiasm, kindled  by  the  countless  sepulchres  of 
the  martyr  church,  found  expression  in  a  collec- 
tion of  hymns,  entitled  "  Peristaphanon,"  or,  "Con- 
cerning the  CrowTis."  He  was  the  first  writer 
who  attempted  to  reduce  to  a  pleasing  form  the 
incidents  of  martyrdom.  The  history  of  the 
ancient  bishops  of  Rome  is  intimately  connected 
with  that  of  the  catacombs,  in  which  not  a  few 
were  martyred,  and  all,  till  the  middle  of  the 
fifth  century,  were  buried.  From  the  time  of 
Leo  I.,  who  in  462  was  interred  in  the  vestibule 
of  the  sacristy  of  St.  Peter's,  we  may  date  the 
decline  of  tlie  subterranean  cemetries.  During 
the  troubles  whicli  followed,  the  knowledge  of 
tlieir  entrances  was  lost,  and  only  a  few  short 
passages  of  easy  access  remained  open,  which 
were  still  embellished  with  the  ornaments  sug- 
gested by  a  debased  taste.  The  earliest  accusa- 
tions brought  against  the  Christians  were  leveled 
principally  at  their  obstinate  adherence  to  their 
religion,  and  refusal  to  sacrifice  to  idols.  Pliny 
described  them  as  meeting  together  to  worship 
Christ,  to  sing  hymns,  and  to  partake  of  a  social 
meal ;  their  morals  were  represented  as  pure, 
their  opinions  as  simply  opposed  to  the  religion 
of  the  state. 


5'Dt  n  %Hmt  ill  tlit  0nllnj. 


WRITTEN  BY  J.  E.  CARPENTER. 


COMPOSED  BY  STEPHEN   GLOVEH. 


r- ^ 1 fr)s — 


1    Come  to  the    valley— the  mountain  may  be    The    joy  of  the      hunter,  the      homo    of  the 
2.  Come  to  the    valley— the  mountain  has   not  The     many  fair      blossoms  that  grow  round  my 


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cot;  The    rivu-lct  gushing— yet  si-lent-ly        still,     Me  -  an  -  d' ring  in    peace    by  the 


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8va 


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I'VE    A    UOME    IN    THE    VALLEY. 


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there,  There  the  bright  flowers  are  flinging  their  sweets  to  the    air,  'Tis  the  fairy-like  home  of  the 
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flow  -  'ret  like     thee,    I've  a      home    in  the 


val  -  ley,  come  share    it   with      me  !  I've  a 
val  -  lej',  come  share    it   with      me  !  I've  a 


cot       in  the    val-ley,  come  share  it  with  me  !  I've  a      cot       in  the    val-ley,  come  share  it  with 
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SUBMISSION    TO    PROVIDENCE, 


BY      REV,      JACOB        ABBOTT 


We  little  realize  ho^v  few  of  the  circumstances  of 
life  on  ■which  our  welfare  and  happiness  depend  are 
within  our  control.  Man's  heart  deviseth  his  way, 
but  the  Lord  directeth  his  steps.  We  should  be 
willing  now  to  submit  to  this  direction.  Be  active> 
energetic,  patient,  persevering,  and  circumspect  in 
all  your  plans  and  efforts.  Leave  nothing  undone 
which  it  is  in  your  power  to  do,  to  insure  success. 
But  when  you  have  done  all,  calmly  and  quietly 
leave  the  event  in  his  hands  who  most  certainly 
will  decide,  whether  you  have  the  heart  to  ac- 
quiesce in  his  decision  or  not.  Allow  yourself  to 
feel  no  solicitude  and  no  anxiety.  Li  circumstan- 
ces of  danger,  or  where  you  imagine  there  is  dau- 
ser,  remember  that  restlessness  and  anxious  con- 
cern  are  insubmission.  You  are  upon  the  water  in  a 
dark  and  stormy  night, — and  you  harass  yourself 
and  those  around  you  by  the  indulgence  and  ex- 
pression of  your  fears.  You  watch  the  skies, — 
you  make  ceaseless  and  utterly  useless  inquiries, 
— you  listen  to  the  moaning  of  the  wind,  and 
■wish  you  had  not  embarked, — and  in  a  word  you 
allo^w  your  soul  to  work  itself  uito  a  commotion 
which  forms,  witliin,  the  image  and  counterpart 
of  the  sea  of  surges  which  is  roaring  without, 
around  you.  Is  this  the  spirit  of  submission  ?  Is 
this  a  readiness  to  acquiesce  in  the  Divine  will 
concerning  you  ?  Can  a  Christian  who  has  given 
himself  to  the  Lord,  to  be  disposed  of  soul  and 
body,  for  time  and  for  eternity  by  him,  can  a 
Christian  thus  allow  his  heart  to  rebel  against 
the  mighty  hand  that  is  over  him,  and  call  him- 
self a  Christian  still  ? 

Whenever  anything  occurs  in  the  dealings  of 
Divine  Providence,  whether  it  be  losses,  dangers, 
or  difficuliies,  we  must  say  to  the  rising  feeling 
within,  Hush,  be  still.  We  must  calm  the  anx- 
iety, dismiss  the  care,  and  throw  the  whole  soul 
into  an  attitude  of  ([uiet  repose,  by  bringing  home 
fully  to  our  minds  the  reflection  that  the  j)ressure 
which  we  feel  is  the  pressure  of  the  mighty  hand 
from  above,  against  which  it  is  most  vain  as  well 
as  wicked  to  struggle. 

So  in  case  of  any  impending  calamity  or  dan- 
ger, the  hand  may  exert  itself  to  avert  it,  but  the 
heart  must  be  still.     A  reverse  of  fortune  is  in- 


volving you  in  difficulties  and  embarrassments 
which  hedge  you  up,  day  by  day,  more  and  more 
closely,  and  from  whicli  there  is  every  day  less 
and  less  hope  of  extrication.  Or  death  is  coming 
to  sunder  some  of  the  dearest  ties  which  entwine 
your  heart :  all  efforts  to  relieve  and  save  are 
vain,  and  you  see  the  sufferer,  whom  you  love, 
pming  slowly  away  and  sinking  gradually  and 
hopelessly  towards  the  grave.  In  either  of  these 
cases  you  are  not  indeed  to  relax  your  exertions. 
What  little  lays  in  your  power,  you  must  faith- 
fully do.  But  the  activity  of  your  movement 
without  must  not  have  a  counterpart  in  restless- 
ness and  inquietness  of  spirit  within.  Here  all 
must  be  calm,  peaceful,  resigned.  We  must  feel 
that  such  questions  are  to  be  decided  by  a  different 
voice  from  ours.  This  willingness  tojeave  the  re- 
sponsibility where  it  properly  belongs,  will  take 
off  from  your  soul  one  half  its  burden,  and  make 
the  other  half  easily  borne. 

Some  persons  say  that  such  a  doctrine  as  this 
is  very  easy  to  preach  but  very  hard  to  practise  ; 
but  this  is  a  mistake.  It  is  easy  and  delightful 
to  practise.  It  is  the  contrary  is  hard.  It  is  the 
spirit  of  insubmision  and  resistance  which  is  hard. 
It  is  the  kicking  against  the  pricks  wliich  is  hard. 
Whoever  learns  the  lesson  of  submission  to  the 
will  of  God  learns  the  secret  of  comfort  and  happi- 
ness. He  enjoys  everything  good  more,  and  suf- 
fers everything  evil  less,  than  another.  In  hct, 
there  is  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  receiving  a  cup  of 
trial  and  sorrow  from  the  hand  of  one  whom  you 
love  and  adore,  wiien  you  come  thoroughly  to  feel 
that  he  has  the  right  to  do  with  you  just  as  he 
pleases,  and  that  he  will  only  please  to  do  what 
is  right.  Many  souls  in  this  frame  cf  mind  have 
welcomed  disappointment  and  sorrow.  They  open 
their  doors  to  trouble,  and  bid  it  come  in,  since  it  is 
seut  from  God. 

Tiie  celebrated  words  of  Kirk  White  are  not 
mere  poetry  ;  they  express  feelings  to  which 
many  hearts  can  respond : 

"  Come,  Disappointtnent,  come  ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad  ; ' 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  giiise  ; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 


H 


SUBMISSION    TO    PROVIDENCE. 


The  restless  and  tlie  bad  : 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And  round  my  brow,  resign'd,  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine 

Though  Fancy  flies  away 
Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  IMeditaticn,  in  her  cell, 
Hears,  with  faint  eye,  the  lingering  knell, 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead  ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say.  My  all  was  not  laid  here. 

Come,  Disappointment,  ccme  ! 

Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurl'd, 
Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiren, 
For  thou  severe  wert  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world  : 
To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 

And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die 

«  #  #  »  *  * 

Come,  Disappointment,  come  ! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me  ; 
Sad  Monitress  !  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say.  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  ! 

This  submissiou,  however,  which  makes  us  wil- 
ling to  receive  calmly  and  patiently  whatever 
Divine  Providence  sends,  does  not  prevent  our 
feeling  it.  Some  persons  seem  to  confound  re- 
signation with  insensibility,  or  at  least  they  ima- 
gine that  great  grief  shows  want  of  resignation. 
But  I  suppose  that  resignation,  after  all,  does  not 
tend  so  much  to  diminish  the  depth  as  to  change 
the  character  of  sorrow.  When  we  lose  a  friend, 
for  example,  by  death  or  some  unhappy  aliena- 
tion, we  maj  feel  the  loss  more  or  less,  according 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  without  being 
resigned  to  it  at  all.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
may  be  the  most  entire  and  happy  acquiescence 
in  the  Divine  will,  under  the  pressure  of  a  sorrow 
which  entirely  overwhelms  the  soul.  We  must 
not,  therefore,  infer,  when  we  see  a  wife  over- 
whelmed with  grief  at  the  loss  of  a  husband,  or 
a  mother  for  a  son, — we  must  must  not  infer  from 
the  depth  of  tlie  sufierer's  anguish  that  she  is  not 


resigned.  She  may  be  perfectly  so.  Resignation 
does  not  turn  grief  into  gladness.  It  does  not 
weaken  sensibility,  or  stop  tears.  It  takes  away 
the  repining,  the  restlessness,  and  the  bitterness 
of  grief, — but  leaves  the  melting  tenderness  of 
the  soul  the  same  as  before.  Resignation  does 
not  destroy  suffering, — it  makes  us  willing  to 
bear  suffering.  It  takes  away  resistance  to  sor- 
row from  the  mind,  not  the  sorrow  itself.  But  in 
doing  so  it  changes  the  whole  character  of  the 
sorrow,  not  by  diminishing  its  intensity,  but  by 
destroying  its  sting.  It  remains  as  great  as  be- 
fore, but  it  ceases  to  be  suffering. 

Let  us  all  acquiesce  cordially  and  happily  in 
the  control  of  the  mighty  hand  which  is  over  us. 
That  hand,  most  certainly  is  over  us,  and  struggle 
as  much  as  we  may,  we  can  never  resist  its  power. 
We  are  now  where  we  are,  and  what  we  are,  not 
because  ten  years  ago  we  planned  and  designed 
it,  but  because  God  has  brought  us  on  to  our  pre- 
sent position,  in  a  way  we  knew  not  of     And 
where  and  what  we  shall  be  ten  years  hence,  de- 
pends upon  God's  designs  for  us,  not  upon  our 
own  schemes  and  plans  for  ourselves.     He  will 
decide  whether  we  are  soon  to  be  swallowed  up 
in  the  vortices  of  sorrow  and  death  which  are 
whirling  around  us,  or  whether  we  shall  float  on 
a  little   longer.     A   thousand  years  hence  we 
shall  be  where  and  what  he  pleases, — enjoying 
such  means  of  happiness  as  he  may  prepare  for 
us,  or  suffering  the  pains  which  his  righteous  re- 
tribution may  provide  for  spirits  which  cannot 
bear  his  gentle  sway.     Let  us  learn  soon  the 
lesson,  "  Thy  will  be  dune."     He  who  can  say 
this  always,  everywhere,  and  under  all  circum- 
stances, is  safe  and  happy,  let  what  will  befall 
him.    His  soul  is  enveloped  in  a  protection  which 
no  sharp  arrow  can  pierce.     He  cannot  be  hurt ; 
he  cannot  be  wounded.     His  experience  in  life 
will  admit  of  one  change, — irom  joijful  happiness 
in  ffhid  hours,  to  sad  happiness  in  sorrow  and 
tears.     Whatever  the  change  is,  it  will  be  peace 
and  happiness  still.   Let  us  all  learn  then  to  say, 
'•Thy  will  be  done." 


AND      GOD    SAID     LET   THERE    BE    LIGHT 


"  Let  there  be  light"  I  Swift  as  the  wings  of  thought, 
Forth  rushed  the  angels  at  Jehovah's  voice, 
To  bid  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  stars  rejoice. 
And  gild  creation  o'er ; — yet  light  was'not : — 
Not  in  the  caves  of  earth,  and  the  dark  sea, 


Heaving,  its  billows  groaned  "  'tis  not  in  me." 
Where,  Light,  thy  dwelling? — Lo  1  the  golden  doors 
Of  Heaven  are  opened  :  Darkness,  turn  and  flee  '. 
Back,  angels,  speed  thy  to  thy  celestial  shores ; 
See,  from  the  throne  of  God  the  stream  of  glory  pours  ■ 


DIES     IRAE 


RENDERED  INTO  ENGLISH  VERSE. 


BY     REY.     OLIVER      A.      TAYLOR 


The  celebrated  Latin  hymn,  beginning  with 
Dies  Ira,  is  known  to  all  scholars.  My  object,  in 
the  following  version  of  it,  has  been,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  spirit,  to  retain,  as  far  as  possible, 
the  exact  rhythm  of  the  original,  so  that  both 
the  one  anj  the  other  could  be  sung  to  the 
same  tune.  Of  course,  like  all  poetry  trans- 
ferred from  one  language  into  another,  it  must  be 
regarded  as  an  imitation  rather  than  a  translation. 

It  was  my  primary  intention  also  to  give  a 
critical  Iiistory  of  the  hymn  itself;  and  I  early 
began  to  make  collections  for  tliis  purpose,  but 
since  the  Rev.  Dr.  Williams  has  gone  so  far 
into  it,  (though  a  volume  might  be  written  in  con- 
tinuance of  the  same,)  I  have  concluded  to  omit 
it.  It  may  be  simply  remarked,  that  it  is  suppos- 
ed to  have  been  written  by  Thomas  de  Celano,  a 
Minorite  monk,  and  anative  of  Italy,  about  A. D. 
12.jO.  Many  versions  have  been  made  of  it,  into 
almost  all  languages.  Of  those  in  English,  several 
may  be  seen  in  Williams's  work.  The  last  version 
into  English  that  has  met  my  eye,  and  probably 
the  most  successful  one,  preserving,  like  my  own, 
the  double  rhyme,  and  beginning  with,  "  Day  sliall 
dawn  that  has  no  morn,"  was  first  published  in 
the  Newark  Advertiser,  and  is  said  to  have  been 
made  by  Dr.  Abraham  Coles,  of  that  city.  My 
own  version,  here  published,  was  made  several 
years  since,  and  before  I  had  seen  any  rendering 
of  it  into  English  verse,  preserving  the  exact 
features  of  the  original.  In  the  first  stanza,  I 
have  preferred  to  drop  the  heathen  idea  that 
the  Sybils  were  capable  of  truly  prophesying. 
Those  who  wisih  to  retain  it.  may  read  the  second 
line,  "Sybils  sung,  and  David's  lyre."  There  are 
several  various  readings  of  parts  of  the  hymn,  of 
which  no  notice  is  taken ;  and  one  of  the  first 
stanza,  dropping  the  idea  respecting  the  Sybils 
and  introducing  that  of  the  standard  of  the  cross 
waving  in  triumph  over  the  world,  as  the  Saviour 
comes  to  judgment.  This  last  may  be  expressed 
with  a  tolerable  degree  of  exactness,  thus  : — 

"  Lo  the  day,  that  day  of  ire,  ,    . 

Burning  with  devouring  fire, 
Waves  the  banner  of  Messiah."        i 


The  cloiing  stanza  of  the  hymn,  as  will  be  seen 
is  peculiar.  In  the  original,  tlie  two  closing  lines 
are  made  to  contain  a  prayer  for  the  dead,  thus  :— 

"Pie  Jesu  Domine, 
Dona  eis  requiem." 

I  have  so  far  varied  from  it  as  to  have  nothing 
shocking  to  the  feelings  of  a  Protestant  Christian. 
Indeed,  this  is  the  only  place  in  which  there  comes 
out  anything  peculiar  to  the  Roman  form  of  Chris- 
tianity. All  the  rest  of  the  hymn  is  of  the  purest 
doctrinal  character,  and  has  faith  in  Christ  for 
its  fundamental  principle  ;  thus  showing  that 
even  in  the  dark  ages  there  were  those  who  had 
the  light  of  life  in  great,  if  not  in  all,  its  purity. 
Those  who  wish  to  enter  more  at  large  into  the 
subject  of  this  hymn,  may  consult  "  Anthologie 
christliclier  Gesange  aus  der  alten  und  mittlern 
Zeit,  von  August  Jacob  Rambach,  3  Bds.  Altonoe 
in  Leipzig,  ISlY,"  vol.  1,  p.  32  seq.  ;  and  especial- 
ly. Dr.  William  R.  Williams's  Misc.,  2d  ed., 
N.  Y.,  1850,  p.  78." 

DIES  IRAE. 

Lo,  the  day !  that  day  of  ire, 
Sung  by  Zion's  hallowed  lyre, 
Burning  virith  devouring  fire  ! 

0  !  the  terrors  vast  arising,  " 
Of  the  Judge  all  scrutinizing,  ' 
On  a  cloud  the  world  surprising. 

Hear  the  trumpet  loudly  swelling. 
Through  earth's  dark  scpulchual  dwelling, 
Man  before  the  throne  compelling. 

Death  aghast,  and  wide  creation , 
See  the  dead  of  every  nation, 
Rise  in  Judgment-expectation. 

Forth  is  brought  the  Book  of  Ages, 
Flashing  direly  with  presages. 
All  things  blazoned  on  its  pages  ! 

Jesus  on  his  throne  of  wonder, 

Every  veil  is  rent  asunder, 

Hound  him  rolling  vengeful  thunder. 

Ah  me  !  shrink  those,  righteous  being  ! 
Heaven  and  earth  prepare  for  fleeing  I 
Can  I  bear  the  eye  all-seeing  1 


96 


TWO    STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRESIDE. 


Yet,  enthroned  in  sapphire-blazes, 
Awful  King,  thy  grace  amazes, 
Save  me  for  its  endless  praises  ! 

By  thee  once,  in  death  extended, 
Was  a  ruined  world  befriended  I 
On  thee  hang  my  hopes  suspended. 

For  me  thou  didst  bless  the  manger, 
Bear  the  cross  and  brave  its  danger ; 
0  1  remember  still  the  stranger  I 

Let  compassion,  kindly  yearning, 
The  demands  of  justice  spurning. 
Blot  the  leaves  against  me  burning  ' 

Hear  the  pleas  thy  suppliant  urges, 
Trembling  on  destruction's  verges — 
'Neath  him  rolling  fierj'  surges. 

Must  I  from  thy  face  be  driven, 
When  vile  Mary  was  forgiven, 
And  the  thief  xssured  of  Heaven  ? 


Justly  may  thy  vengeance  lower  ; 
Yet  in  mercy  show  thy  power, 
Let  not  endless  flames  devour  I 

In  the  last  adjudication, 
Grant  my  guilty  soul  a  station 
With  the  children  of  salvation. 

From  thy  joys  celestial  never. 
With  the  vile,  my  spirit  sever. 
In  thy  wrath  to  burn  forever. 

Joined  with  myriads  now  before  thee, 
Would  thy  guilty  worm  adore  thee, 
Hear  his  trembling  voice  implore  thee  ! 

Day  of  grief  and  wo  surprising, 
When  to  judgment  all  are  rising, 
Then, — in  mercy  veiled,  each  feature, — 
Spare,  0  spare  the  guilty  creature  ; 
With  thee,  Lord  and  Saviour  blessed  I 
Let  him  find  eternal  rest. 


Ambn. 


TWO     STORIES     FOR    THE    FIRESIDE 


B  Y 


STODDARD, 


It  was  a  cold  winter  night :  the  snow  had  been 
foiling  since  daybreak,  and  the  valley  in  which 
we  dwell,  was  knee-deep.  Throughout  the  day, 
we  saw  the  white  flakes  sifted  down  upon  the 
woods  and  fields  :  the  bushes,  at  first  so  stiff  and 
erect,  began  to  droop  and  bend  ;  the  outstretched 
arms  of  the  pines  were  loaded  down  ;  and  in  one 
place,  where  the  wind  seemed  to  have  chosen  its 
highway  in  passing  through  the  valley,  the  snow 
was  drifted  over  the  fences  and  the  stone  walls. 
Now  and  then  a  sleigh  dashed  by,  with  its  bells 
jingling  sharply  and  merrily,  and  one  or  two  foot 
dassengers,  plodded  down  the  road,  but  for  the 
most  part  the  villagers,  like  sensible  people,  kept 
in-doors. 

We  sat  around  our  great  fireplace,  and  the 
hickory  logs  on  the  hearth  burned,  and  simmered, 
and  puffed  out  their  sappy  steam,  like  a  minature 
train  of  cars  filled  with  salamanders.  Year  after 
year  we  draw  our  chairs  around  that  hospitable 
hearth,  and  hope  too  for  years  to  come.  Somehow 
or  other,  on  winter  nights  one  always  feels  kindly 
and  charitably  disposed.  He  feels  that  all  men 
re  his  brethren,  and  all  women  his  sisters;  and 


certainly  this  last  fact,  cannot  but  make  the 
most  cynical  rejoice.  When  the  fire  blazes,  and 
the  sparks  cmckle  up  the  chimney,  we  think  of 
the  thousands  in  towns  and  cities,  sitting  around 
their  own  firesides,  in  social  friendship  and  mirth : 
nor  only  those  within  doors,  but  we  sympathize 
deeply  with  those  without.  We  see  in  thought, 
the  solitary  night  passenger  toiling  wearily  along 
the  highway,  stamping  his  feet,  and  beating  his 
arras  to  keep  himself  warm  :  the  roads  are  almost 
impassable  with  snow,  and  the  bleak  wind  blows 
over  the  common,  until  he  is  nearly  frozen :  he 
passes  by  old  barns  where  the  cattle  ar?  warmly 
housed  :  the  farmer  is  there  with  his  lantern : 
cattage  windows  by  the  roadside  are  ruddy  and 
bright,  and  a  long  streak  of  light  streams  out  in- 
to the  darkness :  how  clieerful  and  happy  they 
must  be  within  ! — if  he  was  only  at  home  now  ! — 
but  he  will  be  soon:  he  turns  up  the  well- 
known  pathway ;  a  light  is  held  to  the  window, 
and  in  a  moment  wife  and  children  are  in  his 
arms  I — There  is  nothing  like  a  winter  night,  for 
kindness  and  charity  :  If  you  ever  want  a  favor 
done,  and  cannot  catch  your  man  after  dinners 


TWO    STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRESIDE. 


take  him  by  his  fireside  when  the  nights  are  dark 
and  cold.     He  can  refuse  you  nothing  then. 

But  to  return  to  ourselves  :     Uncle  Tim  sat  in 
his  old  arm  cliair  holding  little  Bess  in  his  lap. — 
Reader,  I  wish  you  had  the  honor  of  Uncle  Tim's 
acquaintance.     I    know    you    would   like    him. 
Everybody  does.     He  is,  I  should  guess,  about 
sixty-five,  and  a  hale,  hearty  old  bachelor.     His 
hair,  what  there  is  left  of  it,  is  white    as  snow, 
and  his  head  is  bald  on  top,  like  the  fine  old 
gentleman's  on  the  stage,  who  always  insists  on 
paying  everybody's  debts.     Portly,  for  he  is  ac- 
customed  to  good  dinners, — healthy,  for   he  is 
accustomed  to  exercise,— jolly,  for  he  is  fond  of 
mirth,  and  always  kind-hearted,  he  is  the  pride 
of  the  village,  and  the  god  father  of  half  tlie  little 
urchins  in  it.    When  he  dies  (this  is  in  confidence) 
I  shall  come  in   fur  something  handsome.     My 
post  obits  are  as  good  as  gold     Bess,  his  favorite, 
and  our  youngest,  is  a  merry  little  maid  of  four 
or  five;  such  a  one  as  Coleridge  thought  of,  when 
he  wrote  about  j 

"  A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks."  i 

Kate  and  Ruth,  a  pair  of  beautiful  girls,  about 
sixteen  and  eighteen  years  of  age,  sat  on  Uncle 
Tim's  left  hand,  knitting  mittens  for  the  coming 
charity  fair ;  mother  next,  and  I  brought  up  the 
end  of  the  wing  in  the  corner.     Bess  held  a  little 
sea  shell  in  her  hand,  which  she  had  been  play- 
ing with  for  the  last  half  hour,  teasing  Uncle  Tim 
the  while  to  tell  her  a  story,  which  he  promised 
to  do  by-and-by.   Taking  the  shell  from  the  child, 
who  by  this  time  had  grown  tired  of  it,  and  was 
playing  with  a  china  lamb,  her  new  year's  pre- 
sent, I  examined  it  minutely.     It  was  hard,  dark, 
and  scaly  on  the  outside,  with  knobs,  and  jagged 
horns  like  the  crooked  legs  of  an  immense  spider, 
but  its  portal  was  more  beautiful  than  the  rose 
tin's  of  a  summer  morning.     I  held  it  to  n.y  ear, 
and  it  murmured  sadly  and  solemnly  like  a  dis- 
tant sea.     I  thought  of  what  it  had  encountered 
in  the  depths  of  ocean ;— of  the  world  of  waters 
rolling  over  it,  dark  and  green,  flecked  with  white 
sailed    ships ; — of    great    monsters    swimming 
around  and  above  it ; — of  leagues  of  drifting  sea 
weeds,  and  forests  of  coral  with  long  white  arras  i 
— of  old  armaments  gone  to  wreck,  with  cargoes 
of  rich  merchandise  ; — and  of  the  tempest  which 
tore  it  from  its  hold  of  the  rocks,  and  washed  it 
up  on  the  sand.  Perhaps  it  had  been  picked  up,  by 
a  cabin  boy,  on  his  first  voyage,  as  a  present  for 
his  old  mother,  who  prayed  for  his  welfare,  night 
and  morning,  with  tears.     Perhaps  by  some  old 
"salt,"  for  the   children  of  his  old  sweetheart, 
who  married  a  landsman,  after  the  tidings  came 
that  he  was  lost  in  his  China  trip.     Perhaps, — 
but  there  was  no  end  to  my  speculations,  until  I 


was  startled  by  a  shout  from  Uncle  Tim  :  "  Wha^ 
ails  the  boy?  Is  he  trying  to  be  poetical,  of 
dreaming  with  his  eyes  open  ?  Dick,  you  villain, 
whats  the  matter  with  you?"' 

"Nothing,"  said  I:  "I  was  only  thinking  of 
Savage  Landor's  fine  lines  on  a  sea  shell.  Do 
you  remember  them.  Uncle '(" 

"  Can't  say  I  do.  Dick :  suppose  you  repeat 
them  for  the.  benefit  of  the  company." 

"  Listen. 

"  But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Witliin,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
From  the  Sun's  palace  porch,  where,  when  unyoked. 
His  chariot  wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave. 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens — then  apply 
Its  polished  lip  to  your  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  angnst  abodes, 
And  murmurs,  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there,"' 

'•Not  bad,  Dick,"  said  my   uncle,"  not^bad 

though  you  mouth  it   too   much.     I  have  often' 

liL-teued  to  the  murmurs  of  tlie  sea  shell  myself. 

I  but  never  thought  of  accounting  for  them  in  that 

j  wny  ;  but  since  you  have  started  it,  let  me  follow 

with  another  quotation." 
i  "  Certainly,"  answered  I,  "  but  you  had  better 
ij  send  for  the  book ;  your  memory  is  leaving  you 
|i  very  fast:  you  have  already  forgotten  to  give 
';i  me  that  check  for  fifty  dollars,  whic'.i  you  pro- 
mised me  only  yesterday." 

«  Never  mind  the  fifty  now ;  this  passage  i-; 
worth  a  thousand.  You  may  find  it  ia  "  The 
Excursion,"  if  I  am  not  mistaken  : 

"  I  have  seen 
A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth  lipped  shell, 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely,  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy,  for,  murmuring  from  within 
"Were  head  sonorous  cadences,  whereby. 
To  his  belief,  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  iis  native  sea,— 
Even  such  ashell  the  Universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith ;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things— 
Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever  during  power, 
And  central  peace  subsisting  at  ihe  heart 
Of  endless  agitation." 

"  By  the  by,  Dick,"  continued  my  uncle,  after  we 
had  expressed  our  admiration  of  this  noble  pass- 
a.fe— "  what  did  you  ever  do  with  the  fairy  poem 
that  you  began  some  five  or  six  years  ago?  I  re- 
member that  you  were  much  elated  with  it  at 
the  time,  thougli  I  told  you  you  would  never 
finish  it,  if  you  lived  to  be  seventy  :  Was  I  right  ?" 
"Certainly,"  answered  I  again,  thinking  of  the 
check  mentioned  above :  "  Of  course  you  were 
right :  you  always  are:     I  did  not  fimsh  it,  and 


98 


TWO    STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRESIDE. 


what  13  still  better,  never  intend  to.  Tliere  ia  not, 
to  my  knowledge,  a  line  of  it  in  existence. — A 
fairy  poem  after  "  The  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  and  "  The  Culprit  Fay,"  not  to  mention 
Tom  Hood's  "  Plea  for  the  Midsummer  Fairies,"  ! 
It  would  be  absurd  to  think  of  it.  But  I'll  tell 
you  what,  I'll  turn  it  into  a  story,  and  tell  it  this 
evening  if  you  like.     It  isn't  eight  o'clock  yet." 

"Oh  do  tell  U5  a  story,"  said  Eess  kissing  me  : 
"  Do  tell  us  a  story,"  said  Ruth,  and  so  said  all. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I. — And  after  one  or  two 
deprecatory  hems,  I  began : — 

A  FAIRY    STOET    ABOUT  SE.\   SHELLS. 

"  It  is  generally  the  custom  of  story  tellers,  to 
give  some  account — too  often  a  very  long  one — 
of  the  ancestors  of  their  hero  and  heroine ;  and 
frequently  their  valets  and  chambermaids  are 
traced  back  to  roots  of  their  genealogi.\al  trees,  in 
a  way  that  would  do  credit  to  the  oldest  heralds; 
but  as  my  hero  and  heroine  are  fairies,  and  as  I 
really  know  nothing  of  their  relatives,  never  hav- 
ing seen  one  in  all  my  life,  I  must  beg  to  decline 
so  doing  — Indeed  I  am  fearful  that  I  could  hardly 
prove  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  skeptical,  that 
fairies  ever  existed  at  all ;  but  as  I  am  not  talk- 
ing at  present  to  such  uncomfortable  people,  but 
on  the  contrary  to  a  ring  of  devout  believers,  I 
will  not  moot  that  point,  but  take  it  for  granted, 
as  many  wiser  folks  have  done  before  me,  and  get 
on  to  the  beginning  of  my  story,  which  I  shall  not 
reach  at  this  rate,  by  the  dog-days.     Thus  then 
for  a  beginning. — Once  upon  a  time, — no  matter 
when,  a  few  paltry  ages    are  of  no  great  conse- 
quence, but — once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  in  fairy  land,  caused,  as  you  have 
all  rightly  surmised,  by  a  lady. — And  why  not 
pray  ?     Why  should  not  the  fairies,  if  they  like 
get   into    difficulties  with  the  fair   sex  ?     They 
might  hunt  up,  if  they  felt  so  inclined,  a  thousand 
precedents  for  their  folly,  among  the  wisest  and 
greatest  personages  in  history,  sacred  and  profane. 
Did  not — to  begin  at  the  beginning — did  not  our 
blessed  old  grandmother  Eve  lose  us  the  entail  of 
Paradise  by  an  over-fondness  for  apples,  or  pears  ? 
■which,  I   believe,  has  never  been   satisfactorily 
settled.     Did  not  t)ie  Sons  of  God  see  the  daugh- 
ters of  men  that  they  were  fair?     Did  not  the 
daughters  of  Noah  teach  him  how  to  drink  wine  ? 
(What  a  verdant  old  gentleman  he  must  have 
been,  to  be  sure ;  not  a  bit  like  Uncle  Tim  !)  Did 
not  Samson  lose  his  long  locks,  upon  which  he 
prided  himself,  by  going  to  sleep  in  the  lap  of 
l^lilah,  who,  I  make  no  doubt,  was  a  very  nice 
young  lady  ?     Did   not   King   David  love,  and 
King   Solomon  adore  their   seven  hundred  and 
some  odd  charmers  ?   Did  not  iVIark  Antonv,  and 


even  the  cold-blooded  Caesar  confess,  the  personal 
attractions  of  Cleopatra — 

"  The  laughing  Queen  who  canght  the  world's  great 
hands  ?"' 

and  lastly,  to  come  to  modern  times,  witliin  our 
own  recollection,  did  not  Uncle  Tim,  being  a  hale 
old  bachelor  of  sixty-five,  pay  very  marked  at- 
tentions to  a  young  lady,  (who  wasn't  a  niece,)  at 
a  fashionable  watering  place  :  not  to  mention, — 
but  I  won't  pursue  this  subject  any  farther,  for 
you  must  all  be  satisfied  by  this  time,  that  the 
fairies  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  their  pre- 
deliction  for  the  fair.  If  they  had  had  any,  in 
I  this  instance,  however,  it  would  have  availed 
them  nothing  ;  for  the  lady  in  question,  not  only 
relied  upon  her  personal  beauty,  which  was  amaz- 
ing, not  to  say  overwhelming,  but  upon  certain 
philtres  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  adminis- 
tering to  them  in  wine.  Nor  did  she  stop  here  ; 
but  as  soon  as  she  grew  tired  of  their  company 
and  had  new  offers, — and  she  was  as  successful, 
and  capricious  as  most  beauties,  (our  dear  Kate 
for  instance  !)  than  she  changed  them  into  any- 
thing that  she  had  a  mind  to,  animate,  or  inani- 
mate.— Indeed  she  was  a  great  Sorceress ;  say 
some  Circe,  the  Grecian  witch  herself,  others  one 
of  the  Sirens  ;  but  as  both  Circe,  and  the  Sirens, 
were  of  the  usual  height  and  she  only  the  minia- 
ture of  a  woman,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  it,  espe- 
cially as  I  never  knew  any  lady  willing  to  lower 
herself  in  the  eyes  of  gentlemen,  which  the  fairies 
undoubtedly  were.  At  any  rate,  as  I  said  before, 
she  was  a  great  Enchantress,  and  Fairy-Land  was 
half  depopulated  by  her  means.  I  have  forgotten 
to  mention  that,  among  other  attractions,  she  was 
very  fond  of  the  sea.  Indeed  she  was  hardly 
everoutof  it,  while  the  fairies,  until  she  bewitched 
them,  were  hardly  ever  in  it ;  "  It  may  be  a  joke," 
said  they,  "  and  we  have  no  doubt  it  is ;  but  we 
are  dry  jokers,"  and  dry  they  certainly  were,  if 
the  flasks  of  wine,  which  they  drained  for  her, 
were  to  be  taken  into  consideration. 

It  was  her  custom  to  float  up  and  down  the 
smooth  bays  and  horns  of  water,  which  skirted 
the  edge  of  the  Kingdom  of  Oberon  ;  sometimes 
by  day  in  the  sunshine  ;  sometimes  by  night  under 
the  mystical  moon  ;  singing  melodious  and  en- 
chanted songs,  which  seemed  to  imprison  the  rea- 
son of  all  who  listened  to  them.  Ulysses  himself, 
had  he  been  there,  could  not  have  refused  to  fol. 
low  her.  She  not  only  sung  her  victims  into  her 
clutches,  metaphorically  speaking,  but  beckoned 
them  on  with  hands  whiter  than  snow-flakes,  and 
sometimes  sent  little  galleys  filled  with  nymphs 
to  bear  them  into  her  presence  ;  once  there,  her 
manner  changed,  and  she  greeted  them  with  an 


TWO    STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRESIDE. 


99 


air  of  maiden  reserve,  -winch,  united  with  her 
surpassing  beauty,  bo  enamored  them  that  they 
■were  -willing  to  die  for  her,  as  most  of  them  did 
at   last.     She   then  waved  her   wand,  and  her 
barge,  into  which  they  had  entered,  sank  slowly 
through  the  parting  waves,  while  the  nymphs  sang 
until  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  sea.     Once 
there,  they  gave  themselves  up  to  a  life  of  dissipa- 
tion, of  which  those  above  knew  nothing:  some- 
times, when  she  felt  sure  of  her  victim,  she  per- 
mitted him  to  visit  his  old  friends  on  terra  firm  a, 
and  he  spread  glorious   tidings  of  the  fine  hfe 
they  led  below.    People  who  have  been  bit  never 
like  to  confess  it.    To  be  sure  there  was  some 
talk  of  perdition  in  the  sequel ;  but  she  ruined 
them   in  such  a  queenly  way,   that  everybody 
was  anxious  to  embrace  an  opportunity  of  being 
ruined,    ilost  of  the  fairies  thought  of  nothing 
else.     I  am  sorry  to  say  I  know  one  or  two  mor- 
tals in  the  the  same  predicament.     As  there  are 
always  two  or  more  parties  to  every  bargain, 
this  course    of  things    was    sure    to  displease 
somebod}-.    In  this  instance  the  formidable  some- 
body consisted  of  all  the  ladies  in  fairy-land  ;  for 
I  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  tell  you  that  the 
gentlemen  alone  were  fascinated  by  the   Siren. 
Ladies  never  charm   each  other.     If  you  doubt 
the  truth  of  this  axiom,  ask  your  mistress  her 
opinion  of  your  pretty  cousin,  to  whom  she  is 
(barely)  civil,  at  your  repeated  desire.  "  If  things 
go  on  at  this  rate,  what  are  we  to  do  for  lovers  ?" 
was  the  natural  inquiry  of  the  forsaken  fair  ones- 
"  She  pretty  forsooth  !  well,  there  is  no  account- 
ing for  tastes  : — but  that  minx,  and  vixen,  (they 
were  lo.=ing  their  tempers,)  that  witch,  that  ugly 
old  hag,  (they  had  had  lost  their  tempers,)  is 
turning  the  heads  of  half  the  world.     What  shall 
we  do  ?  what  shall  we  do  f     This  was  the  cry 
all  day  long,  and  at  night,  among  other  ladies 
similarly  engaged.  Queen  Titania, — to  whom  I 
do  not  mean  to  introduce  you — put  the  same  ques- 
tion to  King  Obcron,  as  she  gave  him  a  lecture  ( 
behind  the  curtains  of  their  tent  in  the   white 
lily. 

It  was  discovered,  when  the  returns  of  the 
census  came  to  be  taken,  that  tlie  male  population 
of  fairy-land  had  diminished  more  than  half, 
while  there  w.as  a  superabundance  of  the  female, 
most  of  whom  were  unmarried ;  and  not  being 
willing  to  allow  the  gentlemen  to  commit  bigamy, 
and  not  being  able  to  get  them  upon  any  other 
terms,  they  must  irrevocably  become  old  maids 
a  thing  not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment.  What 
to  do,  nobody  knew  ;  but  one  night,  which  you  all 
know  is  day  among  the  fairies.  King  Oberon  and 
Puck  resolved  to  see  what  they  could  accomplish. 
As  they  designed  their  expedition  to  be  kept  a 


'  secret,  they  set  out  from  cnurt  in  the  disguise  and 
train  of  a  troop  of  mountebanks  and  conjurors, 
who  had  been  delighting  that  part  of  the  country 
for  some  time,  and  left  it  after  the  manager  and 
one  or  two  of  his  principal  "stars"  had  pocketed 
a  large  amount  in  the  way  of  complimentary 
benefits.   They  were  disguised  as  clowns  :  Puck 
chalked  his  face  with  the  leaves  of  a  daisy,  and 
King  Oberon  with  a  lily,  always  a  royal  flower, 
and  stained  it  with  the  juice  of  a  whortleberry. 
Their  caps  were  made  of  inverted  morning-glories, 
and  bells  of  silver  dew  jingled  at  the  corners  of 
their  lappets.     A  pair  of  merrier  Tom  Fools  were 
never  seen,  not  even  at  Astley's  in  its  best  days. 
They  both  bore  in  their  bosoms  a  migic  herb, 
lately  discovered,  the  least  leaf  of  which,  it  was 
said,  dropped  into  wine,  was  sufficient  to  over- 
power a  giant.    By  this  they  hoped  to  overcome 
the  Siren,  and  release  their  subjects,  the  betwitch- 
0(1  and  imprisoned  fairies.     As  they  had  started 
from  court  at  early  twilight,  they  reached  their 
place  of  destination   as  the  moon  was   rising. 
With  strict  injunctions  of  secrecy,  they  bade  their 
companions  adieu,  and  turning  a  back  summer- 
set from  their  wagons,  left  them  on  the  borders 
of  the  sea.     It  was  a  clear  and  beautiful  night  in 
June ;  such  a  night  as  novelists  describe  when  they 
picture  lovers  walking  in  old  manorial  parks,  pour- 
ing out  the  springtide  of  their  affections,  as  they 
always  do,  in  novels.    The  moon  had  lifted  her 
horns  above  the  threshold  of  the  horizon,  and  a 
line  of  light  ran  from  a  point  beneath  her  silver 
feet,  and,  widening  to  the  feet  of  the  fairies,  made 
a  pathway  fit  for  the  angels.    The  stars  were 
out  in  the  deep  blue  sky  in  clusters,  and  as  clear 
and  bright  as  if  the  atmosphere  had  been  full  of 
frost.    The  land  wind  blew  out  to  sea,  laden  with 
odors  from  a  forest  of  magnolia;  the  sea  wind 
came  over  the  land  softly  and  freshly,  like  a  bene- 
diction; and  all  the  while  the  white  lips  of  the 
surf  kissed  the  grey  old  rocks,  and  murmured  its 
eternal  aflection  and  loveliness.     As  they  stood 
upon  the  beach,  entranced  by  the  beauty  of  the 
scene,  a  simple  strain  of  melody  came  floating 
over  the  waves.     It  was  so  soft  and  low  at  first, 
that  it  seemed  but   the  creation  of  fancy, — the 
voices  of  their  thoughts  wedded  to  the  music  of 
dreams. 

The  singers  drew  near  the  shore,  riding  from 
wave  to  wave  in  a  bark  no  bigger  tlian  the  shell 
of  a  nautilus.  It  was  by  no  means,  however,  like 
the  nautilus  in  shape,  but  was  modeled  after  the 
old  Roman  galley,  with  a  high  prow  and  stern. 
Its  outside  was  painted  sea-green,  its  inside  was 
silvered  over  with  streaks  of  purple  and  pearl. 
A  row  of  oars  rose  and  fell  on  either  side,  and  the 
water  trickled  down  their  broad  blades  like  dew. 


100 


TWO    STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRESIDE. 


Its  mast  was  a  little  reed,  and  the  sail  the  silken 
leaf  of  some  sea-plant ;  and  where  a  figure  should 
have  been  carved  on  the  prow,  a  single  pearl  was 
inlaid,  and  glittered  like  a  star.     Oberon  recog- 
nized in  the  rowers  many  of  his  subjects,  who  had 
been  led  away  by  enchantment ;  but  tliey  were 
too  fallen  to  recognize  him  in  turn :  the  life  of  a 
galley  slave  was  more  noble  in  their  eyes  than 
that  of  a  king.    Upon  a  golden  deck,  at  the  stern, 
in  the  midst  of  her  nymphs,  the  Queen  reclined, 
and  waved  her  scarf  to  the  gentlemen  on  shore. 
A  more  fascinating  lady  was  hardly  ever  beheld  ; 
a  smaller  certainly  never.      You  may  imagine 
her  size,  when  I  tell  you  that  the  boat  in  which 
she  sat,  with  her  suite  of  nymphs   and  at  least 
twenty   rowers,  was  no  bigger  than   this  shell 
which  I  hold  in  my  hand.     She  lolled  upon  a 
couch  of  sea  flowers,  while  two  of  her  nymphs 
were  busy  braiding  her  hair.     Her  robe  was  silver 
and  emerald,  woven  of  mist  with  a  woof  of  moon- 
beams, and  a  girdle  of  pearls  encircled  her  waist. 
Her  features   were   surpassingly  beautiful   and 
languishing ;  but  if  I  were  to  talk  an  hour,  I  could 
not  do  them  justice,  so  I  must  leave  them  to  your 
fertile  imaginations ;  and  while  you   are  about 
it,  you  may  as  well  have  the  goodness  to  suppose 
that  she  has  reached  the  shore,  and  lavished  her 
blandishments  on  Puck  and  Oberon,  who  have  en- 
tered the   galley,   with   the  understanding  that 
they  are  to  see  her  home  after  a  short  sail,  al. 
ways  in  these   matters  a  stereotyped   arrange- 
ment.    This   done,  the  rowers   plied  their  oars 
with  measured  strokes,  and  the  nymphs  began 
their  suspended  songs,  while  the  dolphins,  never 
so  charmed  since  the  days  of  Arion,  came  up  to 
the    surface,  and  followed  in  their  wake.     On, 
and  on  they  went ;  now  lifted  high  on  the  crest 
of  a  wave,  now  sinking  low  in  its  hollow  ;  rising 
and  falling  on  the  heavy -plunging  billows  ;  some- 
times the  moon  passed  behind  a  rack  of  clouds,  and 
they  drifted  blindly  in  the  dark ;  but  when  she 
emerged,  the  sea  was  lighted  around  them, and 
they  sailed  merrily  on,  followed  by  the  listening 
dolphins.     About  a  league  from  the  shore,  they 
found  themselves  in  a  vast  whirlpool,  which  hol- 
lowed dt-wn  to  a  point  its  centre,  like  an  immense 
tunnel.  It  was  one  of  the  many  portals  to  the  world 
of  Ocean,  and  through  it  they  descended  into 
the  Siren's  realm.     She  waved  her  wand  when 
they  reached  its  centre,  and  they  slowly  sank : 
the  stormy  waters   parted  around   them    for  a 
moment,  and  closed  above  their  heads.    Though 
it  was  night,  and  somewhat  cloudy,  the  sea  was 
not  dark,  as  one  would  have  supposed,  but  rather 
resembled   an  agitated  atmosphere  of  emerald. 
Its  surface  was  whitened  with  foam,  and   the 


moonlight  fell  around  them  like  a  shower  of  sil- 
ver rain.  They  saw  the  smallest  star  above,  and 
the  roots  of  the  continents  below.  Sometimes 
they  found  tliemselves  entangled  in  rising  islands 
of  seaweed,  which  threatened  to  bear  them  to 
the  surface ;  but  at  a  sign  from  the  Queen,  the 
rowers  leaped  out  upon  its  matted  floor,  and,  lift- 
ing the  boat  upon  their  shoulders,  bore  it  to  an 
opening,  through  whicli  they  sank  again  Some- 
times a  great  monster  floating  above  them,  dark- 
ened the  sea  for  leagues ;  and  gleaming  fish 
swam  past,  rubbing  their  sharp  fins  against  the 
sides  of  the  galley. 

At  last  they  reached  the  firm  and  solid  land, 
and  set  out  for  the  bower  of  the  Siren.     They 
had  not  gone  far  before  they  came  to  a  mighty 
hollow,  where  the  ancient  Gods  of  the  sea  lay  in 
the  ruins  of  their  majesty  and  dominion.     There 
sat  Neptune,  with  his  long  beard  grown  to  his  lap, 
and  his  three-forked  trident  shattered  in  his  hands- 
Beside  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  Nereiades  and 
uncrowned  Naiades,  Am  phi  trite,  with  a  bosom 
of  sea-foam,  motionless  as  a  statue.     Old  Triton 
clasped  his  horn  to  his  heart,  and  the  River  Gods 
were  pillowed  on  their  broken  urns.    With  a  few  ■ 
reflections  on  departed  greatness,  which  I  will 
not  trouble  you  by  repeating,  the  train  passed  on. 
The  bottom  of  the  sea  stretched  around  them, 
with  its  hills  and  hollows  covered  with  long  grass, 
and  gleaming  with  precious  stones.     Over  these 
they  passed,  and  through  forests  of  sea-plants, 
whose  long  lank  arms  waved  out  on  the  varying 
currents ;  and  over  wastes  of  sand  where  shells 
were  lying  in  thousands;  and  down  steep  rocks, 
and  precipices,  and  over  lawns  of  moss.     Oberon 
and  the  Queen  walked  at  the  head  of  the  train, 
and  Pack,  like  an  accomplished  courtier,  followed 
in  their  rear. 

They  reached  the  Siren's  bower.  It  was 
covered  with  purple  and  rainbow  blooms,  and 
loaded  down  with  precious  fruit.  Its  floor  was 
paved  with  silver  sands,  and  studded  with  rose- 
tinted  shells  beautiful  to  behold  ;  and  the  moon 
beams  filled  its  alcoves,  and  touched  its  shades 
with  the  light  of  dreams. 

Bidding  them  welcome,  the  Queen  led  them  to 
a  couch  of  moss,  and  clapped  her  hands,  at  which 
two  slaves  approaclied  with  salvers  of  fruit. 
While  they  were  refreshing  themselves  after  their 
nighfs  adventure,  another  band  of  nymphs,— 
(that  which  accompanied  them  having  departed) 
—entered  the  bower  and  began  a  strange  and 
mystical  dance,  fc'o  light  of  foot  were  they,  they 
semed  to  be  floating  in  the  air;  and  when  they 
touched  the  mosses  they  were  unbent,  and  the 
sands  took  no  print  from  their  flying  feet.   Some 


TWO    STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRESIDE. 


101 


formed  themselves  into  a  ring,  and  whirled  around 
until  tlie  eye  grew  giddy  with  watching  their 
mazy  movements ;  and  others  danced  apart  in 
groups  of  twos  and  threes,  with  languishing  eyes 
and  floating  arms.  By  and  by,  another  party  en- 
tered, and  a  more  grotesque  set  of  fellows  were 
never  beheld,  not  even  at  Venice  in  Carniva' 
time,  when  all  the  world  are  playing  the  fool- 
One  could  not  tell  whether  they  were  what  they 
seemed,  or  maskers.  Here  a  crab  turned  a 
summerset  with  an  eel ;  there  a  long  legged 
beetle  waltzed  with  an  oyster;  grotesque  fish, 
with  their  freckled  skins  full  of  unsightly  knobs 
and  horns,  linked  their  fins,  and  promenaded 
round,  while  turtles  gravely  jolted  about  on  stilts  ; 
nor  were  monsters  wanting, — men  with  heads  of 
fish,  and  fish  with  heads  of  men,  and  some  com. 
pounded  of  both,  with  an  intermixture  of  weeds 
and  shells.  Oberon  laughed  heartily  at  their 
pranks,  though  he  knew  tliat  they  were  all  his 
own  subjects,  bewitched  by  the  lady  to  whom  he 
was  paying  his  compliments,  as  sincere  as  most 
compliments  no  doubt ;  and  Puck,  not  to  lose  his 
character  of  Fool,  jumped  from  his  couch,  and  be- 
gan to  caper  in  their  midst.  Taking  one  by  tlie  fin 
and  another  by  the  horn,  he  went  through  a  series 
of  evolutions  that  would  have  turned  the  brains 
(?)  and  made  the  fortune  of  all  the  dancing  mas- 
ters in  Christendom.  One  moment  he  changed 
himself  into  a  crab,  the  next  into  a  fish,  and  anon 
into  the  Harlequin  that  he  was  at  first.  Nor  did 
their  merriment  cease  even  here  ;  at  a  given  sig- 
nal a  band  of  singers  and  musicians  entered,  and 
ranged  themselves  before  the  King,  as  the  chorus 
singers  do  at  the  Opera.  Their  instruments  were 
all  made  of  shells :  some  played  upon  wide 
mouthed  trumpets  and  horns ;  some  on  kettle 
drums  whose  heads  were  made  of  bleached  sea 
plants ;  and  some  on  cymbals  splintered  from  the 
inside  of  the  pearl  oyster:  their  songs  were 
beautiful,  but  as  everybody  who  reads  poetry 
has  read  a  thousand  similar,  I  shall  not  repeat  them 
here.  I  may  mention  however  in  passing,  that 
one  of  the  singers  tried  to  excuse  himself  on  the 
score  of  a  cold  (the  primo  basso,  1  fancy),  and 
another  on  account  of  the  orchestra  not  playing 
in  tune  ;  both  of  which  excuses  were  voted  down 
as  being  familiar  for  ages. 

Some  time  had  passed  away  in  these  amuse- 
ments, with  others  too  numerous  to  mention  ;  till 
at  last  tiie  Siren  begged  the  honor  of  taking  a 
glass  of  wine  with  the  gentlemen,  previous  to  re- 
tiring for  the  night.  Of  course  they  could  not  re- 
fuse, as  this  was  an  opportunity  that  they  had 
long  desired.  Now  they  could  test  the  virtue  of 
their  magic  herbs,  and,  if  they  were  what  they 
had  beer  represented  by  the  simpler  who  gather- 


ed them,  release  the  transformed  fairies.  One  of 
the  slaves  who  served  them  witli  fruit  (it  was 
my  Lord  Fern  Seed,  the  ex-prime  minister  of 
Oberon)  entered  with  a  golden  salver,  containing 
a  flask  of  wine  and  tliree  glasses.  As  he  was 
about  to  hand  it  to  the  Queen,  whose  eyes  spark- 
led in  anticipation  of  another  triumph.  Puck  dart" 
ed  from  his  couch,  and,  kneeling  at  her  feet- 
besought  permission  to  serve  her  Highness,  and 
his  royal  master,  assuring  her  that  the  office  of 
cupbearer  was  one  to  which  he  had  been  long  ac- 
customed, promising  at  the  same  time  to  show 
her  a  feat  in  legerdemain,  to  which  those  he  had 
performed  in  the  dance  were  not  worthy  of  com- 
parison. "With  the  best  grace  that  she  could  as- 
sume at  60  short  a  notice,  she  consented,  and  dis- 
missed my  Lord  Fern  Seed,  who  took  himself  off 
to  the  wine  cellar,  and  soon  forgot  the  slight  she 
had  put  upon  him,  by  finishing  his  interrupted 
game  of  cribbage  with  Pea  Plant,  his  former  valet. 
Puck,  who  had  not  been  among  the  conjurors  for 
nothing,  doffed  his  cap,  and  springing  into  the  air, 
contrived  to  descend  into  the  mouth  of  the  flask- 
where  he  powdered  his  herbs  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  and  mixed  them  with  the  wine,  which 
was  harmless  itself,  as  all  good  wine  is.  In  an- 
other moment  he  was  out,  and  at  her  feet,  with  the 
salver  in  his  hand,  dancing  a  hornpipe  of  his  own 
invention.  He  made  no  doubt  that  her  Highness 
was  convinced  in  her  own  mind  that  he  had  really 
descended  into  the  flask ;  but  it  was  a  mistake, 
easily  understood  by  tliose  who  were  conversant 
with  the  science  of  optical  delusion.  He  himself, 
before  he  understood  the  trick,  lost  five  hundred 
soumarkees  by  it,  from  which  he  had  not  yet 
fully  recovered,  unless  he  considered  the  pleasure 
H  gave  him  to  have  deceived  one  of  her  Highness's 
known  penetration  :  that  was  beyond  all  calcula- 
tion. Then  he  filled  a  couple  of  glasses,  and 
gave  one  to  the  t^iren,  and  the  other  to  King 
Oberon.  They  arose,  pledged  healths  with  many 
compliments,  and  drained  their  glasses.  The 
King  however  drained  his  in  a  different  way  from 
the  lady;  for  while  siie  was  drinking  hers,  he 
threw  his  over  his  shoulder,  and  snatched  her  wand. 
The  effects  of  the  herb  were  in  a  moment  apparent. 
She  fell  back  upon  her  couch  in  a  deadly  stupor, 
scowling  at  the  successful  mountebank.  All  was 
confusion  and  dismay  on  the  part  of  the  nymphs, 
wlio  would  have  fled,  but  that  the  King,  waving 
the  wand,  rooted  tliem  to  the  ground.  They  shed 
many  pitiful  tears,  and  promised  to  amend  their 
course  of  life  for  the  future,  but  all  in  vain.  Oberon 
was  inexorable.  Puck  meantime,  who  had  been 
searching  in  all  the  nooks  and  corners,  found  the 
Siren's  book  of  enchantment,  and  learned  the 
only  charm  that  could  release   the   imprisoned 


102 


THE    BIBLE    CLASS. 


fairies.  Taking  the  wand  from  King  Oberon, 
who  pressed  him  affectionately  to  his  lieart,  he 
pronounced  it,  touching  the  monsters  around,  and 
in  a  moment  they  resumed  their  natural  shapes. 
The  crabs,  eels,  beetles,  toads,  and  other  strange 
things  which  amused  the  Siren  in  the  dance,  were 
the  flower  of  all  Fairy  Land,  and  now  they  crowd- 
ed around  their  rightful  sovereign,  eager  to  kiss 
his  hand,  and  atone  for  their  folly.  What  to  do 
with  the  Siren  and  her  nymphs  no  one  knew, 
till  King,  who  had  been  turning  over  the  enchant- 
ed leaves,  came  upon  a  passage  which  warned 
them  to  beware  of  the  sea  shells.  If  once  con- 
fined therein  by  the  King  of  the  Fairies,  i-elease 
was  hopeless.  How  they  wept  at  this  intelli- 
gence;— how  the  fairies  collected  thousands  of 
ehells  and  imprisoned  them  ; — how  the  King 
and  his  rejoicing  subjects,  a  countless  number, 
arose  from  the  sea,  and  came  to  land; — how 
they  met  an  army  in  search  of  them  ; — how  the 
gentlemen  begged  the  pardon  of  their  old  sweet- 
hearts, who  never  thought  of  discarding  them  for 
their  sins; — how  queen  Titania  fainted  in  the 
arms  of  her  attendants  at  the  recital  of  her  lieges' 
late  peril ; — how  much  more,  which  you  can 
imagine  came  to  pass,  I  will  inform  you  ,but  I  am 
too  dry  at  present  to  do  so:  but  before  I  finish  I 


must  beg  you  all  not  to  doubt  my  story,  as  you 
can  convince  yourselves  of  the  truth  of  a  part  of 
it  by  holding  this  shell  to  your  ears :  when  you 
will  hear  one  of  the  nymphs,  or  it  may  be  the  Siren 
herself,  wailing  in  its  depths.  Mother,  will  you 
have  the  kindness  to  pass  the  shell  that  way,  and 
Uncle  Tim,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  pass 
the  Madeira  this;  upon  my  honor  I  never  was 
so  dry  in  all  my  life." 

"  Dick,"  said  my  Uncle  Tim,  as  I  concluded, 
"  you  have  made  your  story  so  long,  that  I  have 
hardly  time  to  tell  mine ;  at  any  rate  I  must 
shorten  it  somewhat,  as  Bess  is  beginning  to  grow 
sleepy.  Tour  story  has  one  great  fault ;  there 
is  no  conversation  in  it;  how  do  you  account  for 
it?" 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  I  was  afraid  I  could  hardly 
do  it  justice  in  that  respect.  You  know  everybody 
now-a-days,  must  use  a  sprinkling  not  to  say  a 
shower  of  boarding  school  French  in  their  conver- 
sation ;  not  having  this  requisite  myself,  and  not 
supposing  I  could  do  without  it,  I  banished  dia- 
logue in  toto ;  but  suppose  you  tell  us  your  story 
and  try  your  hand  at  an  autograph." 

"  We'll  wait  till  another  time  at  least,"  said  my 
uncle. 


TPIE    BIBLE     CLASS 


BT   MKS.   ELIZA    MEECEIN    BARRY, 


(On  viewing  a  Daguerreotyped  Bible  Class,  con- 
sisting of  a  group  of  twelve  young  ladies,  between 
the  ages  of  thirteen  and  sixteen,  all  of  whom  are 
professors  of  religion,  and  intimately  connected.) 

'Tis  with  strange  feelings  that  I  gaze 

Upon  this  pictured  shrine  .' 
And  feel  'tis  well  prophetic  power 

Cannot  each  fate  divine. 

Fair  girls  !  not  mine  to  raise  the  veil 
Whose  folds,  in  kindness,  shroud 

The  joy,  the  grief  of  future  years — 
The  sunshine  and  the  cloud  ! 

All  now  with  girlhood's  hopes  are  bright ; 

No  baleful  cloud  hath  spread 
Its  dark'ning  shadow  o'er  the  path, 

These  youthful  feet  must  tread  ! 

Yet  not  e'en  Hope  to  flatter  each 

With  skies  all  brilliance  dares  ; 
For  woman's  lot  is  suffering, 

And  woman's  lot  is  theirs ! 


My  heart  is  sad— but  still  one  ray 
Of  brightness  gilds  the  gloom  ; 

'Tis  from  the  Sun  of  Rightousness, 
And  lights  beyond  the  tomb  ! 

Each  gentle  heart  in  this  sweet  group 
The  Saviour's  friendship  knows. 

And  when  deceived  and  wounded  here, 
In  Hira  may  find  repose. 

'Tis  best  I  'tis  best  !  I  know  'tis  best, 

That  woman's  tendril  clasp 
Should  be  unturned  from  earthly  trust, 

By  adverse  fortune's  grasp- 
Then  Saviour  !  let  these  youthful  ones 

Enough  of  Marah  know, 
To  keep  them  near  the  Living  Fount, 

Whence  healing  waters  flow. 

So  though  their  currents  in  Life's  stream 
With  severing  flow  may  glide. 

They'll  blend  again,  and  Heaven's  calm  sea 
Find  them  still  side  by  side. 


DR.    GUTZLAFF,   THE  MISSIONARY. 


CiiARLKS  GuTZLAFF,  the  famous  missionary  in 
China,  is  a  short,  stout  man,  with  a  deep  red  face, 
a  large  mouth,  sleepy  eyes,  pointed  inv/ard  and 
do-wDward  like  those  of  a  Chinaman,  vehement 
gesticulations,  and  a  voice  more  loud  than  melo- 
dious. He  has  acquired,  in  his  features  and  ex- 
pression, something  like  the  expression  of  the 
people  among  whom  he  lives.  His  whole  man- 
ners, also,  as  well  as  his  face,  indicate  the  genu- 
ine son  of  Jao  and  Chun,  so  that  the  Chinese, 
when  they  encounter  him  in  the  street,  salute  him 
as  their  countryman. 

Charles  GutzlafF  was  born  in  1S0.3,  at  Pyritz,  a 
village  of  Pomerania.  His  zeal  as  an  apostle  was 
first  manifested  some  fifteen  ye^irs  ago.  He  mar- 
ried an  Englishwoman,  who  was  animated  with 
the  same  aspiration  as  himself,  and  who  accom- 
panied him  on  his  voyages  as  a  missionary.  His 
extensive  acquaintance  with  the  Chinese  and 
kindred  languages,  even  then,  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  Robert  Morrison,  the  founder  of  the 
Evangelical  Mission  in  China,  whom  he  joined  in 
1  Sol,  at  Macao,  and  caused  his  acquaintance  to 
be  much  sought  by  the  merchants.  In  1832  and 
1833,  he  was  employed  as  an  interpreter  on  board 
ships  engaged  in  smuggling  opium,  but  turned 
this  occupation,  which  in  itself  was  not  of  a  very 
saintly  character,  to  his  religious  ends,  by  the  dis- 
semination of  tracts  and  Bibles.  A  missionary 
journey  to  Japan,  which  he  undertook  in  1837, 
was  without  any  result.  After  Morrison's  death, 
Gutzlaff  was  appointed  Chinese  Secretary  to  the 
British  Consulate  at  Canton,  and,  in  1840,  founded 
a  Christian  Union  of  Chinese  for  the  propagation 
of  the  Gospel  among  their  countrymen.  His  pre- 
sent journey  through  Europe  has  a  similar  pur- 
pose— the  foundation  of  missionary  societies  for 
the  spread  of  Christianity  in  China. 

His  literary  labors  have  had  an  almost  incredi- 
ble extent  and  variety.  He  himself  gives  the  fol- 
lowing enumeration  of  his  writings: — "  In  Dutch 
I  have  written,  a  "History  of  our  Mission,  and  of 
Distinguished  Missionaries,"  and  an  "Appeal  for 
Support  of  the  Missionary  Work ;"  in  German, 
"  Sketches  of  the  Minor  Prophets ;"  in  Latin,  the 
"  Life  of  our  Saviour;"  in  English,  "  Sketches  of 
Chinese  History,"  "  China  Opened,"  •'  Life  of  Kan- 
ghe,"  together  with  a  great  number  of  articles  on 
the  "  Religion,  History,  Philosophy,  Literature, 
and  Laws  of  the  Chinese ;"  in  Siamese,  a  "  Trans- 
lation of  the  New  Testament,"  with  the  Psalms, 
and  an  "  English-Siamese  Dictionary,"'  "  English 


Cambodian  Dictionary,"  and  "  Engli?h-Lao3  Die 
tionary."     These  works  I  left  to  my  successors  to 
finish,  but,  with  the  exception  of  the  "  Siamese 
Dictionary,''  they  have  added  nothing  to  them.  In 
Cochin-Chinese,  a  "  Complete  Dictionary,  Cochin- 
Chinese-English,  and    Englisli-Cochin-Chinese ;" 
this  work  is  not  yet  printed.     In  Chinese,  forty 
tracts,  along  with  three  editions  of  the  "Life  of 
our  Saviour,"  a  "  Translation  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment," the  third  edition  of  which  I  have  carried 
through  the  press.     Of  the  "  Translations  of  the 
Old  Testament,"  the  Prophets,  and  the  two  first 
books  of  Moses,  f.re  completed.     In  this  language 
I    have   also    written   the    "  Chinese   Scientific 
Monthly    Review,"  a   "History  of  England,"   a 
"  History  of  the  Jews,"  a  "  Universal  History  and 
Geography,"  on  "Commerce,"  a  "  Short  Account 
of  the  British  Empire  and  its  fnhabitants,"  as  well 
as  a  number  of  smaller  articles.     In  Japanese,  a 
"Translation  of  the  New  Testament,"  and  of  the 
first  book  of  Moses,  two  tracts,  and  several  sci- 
entific pamphlets.     The  only  paper  to  which  I 
now  send  communications  is  the  "  Hong  Kong 
Gazette,"  the  whole  Chinese  department  of  which 
I  have  undertaken.    Till  the  year  1842,  I  wrote 
for  the  "Chinese  Archives." 

So  vast  a  surface  as  the?e  writings  cover,  re- 
quires a  surprising  facility  of  mind,  and  an  inde- 
fatigable perseverance.  When  you  see  the  man 
engaged  in  his  missionary  toils,  you  understand 
the  whole  at  once.  He  arrives  in  a  city,  and 
hastens  to  the  church  which  is  prepared  for  his 
reception.  After  preaching  for  an  hour  with  the 
greatest  energy,  he  takes  up  his  collection,  and  is 
gone.  He  speaks  with  such  rapidity  that  it  is 
hardly  possible  to  follow  him.  Such  rapidity  is 
not  favorable  to  excellence  in  the  work.  Of  all 
his  writings,  only  one  work  is  known  to  me,  that 
published  in  I^Iunich,  in  1847,  under  the  title  of 
"  GutzlafT's  History  of  the  Chinese  Empire,  from 
the  Earliest  Times  to  the  Peace  of  Nankin."  In 
our  imperfect  acquaintance  with  Chinese  History, 
this  compendium  is  not  without  value,  but  it  dis- 
plays no  critical  power,  and  is  a  mere  external 
compilation,  and  poorly  written.  From  it  we 
learn  as  good  as  nothing  of  the  peculiar  customs 
and  state  of  mental  culture  of  the  country.  The 
whole  resembles  a  Christian  history  of  the  world 
written  in  the  eighteentli  century,  beginning  with 
Adam  and  Eve,  and  leaving  the  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans out  altogether,  because  they  were  without 
a  Divine  revelation. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A   SENSITIVE  SPIRIT. 


My  earliest  recollections  are  of  a  enug,  modest- 
looking  cottage,  far  away  in  the  country,  whose 
shady  garden  was  full  of  the  sweet  breath  of  roses, 
and  honeysuckle,  and  many  other  flowers.  This 
house  and  this  garden  were,  to  my  tiny  appre- 
hension, the  sum  and  substance  of  all  delight ; 
and,  truly,  never  was  a  scene  more  calculated  to 
strike  on  the  young  soul  in  its  bud  of  being,  and 
to  touch  those  mysterious  chords  yet  unjarred  by 
the  world's  rough  hand.  My  father  was  an  bum- 
ble and  unpretending  country  pastor,  void  of  am- 
bition, except  as  he  could  train  the  soul  for  hea- 
ven. Alike  removed  from  envying  the  powerful 
or  scorning  the  poor,  he,  with  calm  dignity  of 
mien  and  tenderness  of  heart,  pursued  the  duties 
of  his  sacred  calling.  It  seems  so  far  back,  that 
I  can  scarcely  say  whether  it  be  a  recollection  of 
this  life  or  a  dream  of  some  other ;  but  there  we 
sit,  on  the  evening  of  a  summer's  day,  in  our 
shady  alcove,  my  father  reading  aloud,  my  mo- 
ther at  her  work,  little  Edward  and  myself  at 
their  feet.  We  little  ones  are  playing  with  some 
wild  flowers,  and  form  these  into  a  variety  of  de- 
vices. Suddenly  I  break  off,  and  look  up  in  my 
father's  face.  He  is  not  reading  now.  His  eyes 
are  resting  on  some  object  in  the  distance.  His 
face  wears  a  strange  expression — a  kind  of  faded, 
unearthly  look.  I  did  not  know  what  this  was 
then — I  know  it  now.  I  am  fascinated  by  this 
shadow  on  the  beloved  face,  till  I  feel  a  strange 
pang  at  my  heart,  the  first  that  has  ever  visited  it. 
My  father  at  last  looks  down,  kindly  pats  my 
curly  head,  and  says,  "  Why,  how  quiet  we  all 
are !"  Upon  this,  I  look  at  my  mother,  and  see 
that  her  blue  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  She  hurries 
into  the  house;  my  father  follows ;  and  I,  finding 
my  little  brother  fast  asleep  on  his  flowers,  bury 
my  face  in  my  hands,  and  burst  into  a  passion  of 
weeping.  I  cannot  tell  why  I  wept,  but  a  sha- 
dow had  come  into  my  gay,  young  heart ;  and, 
clasping  little  Edward  in  my  arms,  at  last  I 
sobbed  myself  to  sleep  also. 

Yet  another  evening,  and  we  sit  in  our  humble 
parlor.  We  youngsters  have  had  a  merry  day 
of  it,  for  some  little  friends  have  been  taking  tea 
with  us.  The  spirit  of  our  exuberant  glee  has  not 
yet  died  away,  but  we  are  quiet  now,  for  it  is  the 
hour  of  prayer.  Sally,  our  sole  domestic,  with 
lier  red  arms,  and  red,  good-humored  fixce,  tries 
to  look  demurely  at  us — which,  in  truth,  she  can- 
not accomplish — and,  by  various  telegraphic  nods 


and  shakes  of  the  head,  secures  our  good  behavior 
My  mother  plays  on  the  piano,  and  we  sing  a 
hymn.  We  all  join,  in  our  way,  Sally's  rough 
voice  setting  off  my  mother's  wonderfully.  I 
wonder  if  the  angels  in  heaven  sing  as  sweetly  as 
she.  I  believe,  in  my  small  mind,  that  my  fath- 
er thinks  so,  for  sometimes  he  does  not  sing,  but 
listens  to  her,  and  looks  at  her,  in  a  kind  of  rapt, 
admiring  way.  The  hymn  over,  we  listen  to  a 
portion  of  the  holy  book — God's  book — for  that 
is  the  name  by  which  we  know  it.  Then  my 
father  prays,  and  we  pray,  in  our  simple  manner, 
to  the  great  Father  above  the  blue  sky.  Tlie  re- 
ligion of  our  dear  home  is  neither  morose  nor 
sullen.  All  pleasant,  simple  delights  are  ours. 
Our  merry  laugh  is  not  chidden,  and  we  are 
early  taught  to  minister  to  others.  Thus  it  fol- 
lows that  we,  unasked,  give  our  weekly  pence  to 
the  poor  little  boy  whose  father  died  last  week, 
of  whose  desolate  condition,  and  that  of  his  mo- 
ther, we  hear  our  parents  speak.  We  know  very 
well,  though  none  ever  told  us,  that  these  same 
dear  parents  are  ministering  angels  to  the  afflicted 
and  distressed. 

We  do  sometimes  wonder  where  the  money 
comes  from  that  helps  the  poor;  for  when  I,  seiz- 
ed with  an  envious  fit,  ask  why  I  cannot  have  gay 
apparel,  like  one  of  my  little  friends — why  I  must 
wear  an  old  frock  while  she  displays  a  new  one 
— my  father  shakes  his  head,  and  says,  "  My  dear 
Mary,  I  cannot  afford  finery  for  my  children." 
Then  a  light  breaks  upon  me,  and  I  know  that 
father  is  careful,  and  mother  is  careful,  and  that 
we  must  be  careful  too,  that  we  may  give  to  the 
poor.  And  now,  after  the  lapse  of  some  months, 
I  observe  again  the  old  look  on  my  father's  face. 
He  has  a  short  cough,  and  seems  tired  with  doing 
very  little.  His  deep,  dark  eyes  have  a  strange 
shadow  about  them,  and  there  is  a  peculiar  ten- 
derness in  his  whole  manner.  Somehow,  we 
children  are  more  silent  than  we  used  to  be.  We 
do  not  feel  so  much  inclined  to  be  noisy  and  bois- 
terous as  heretofore.  Days  and  weeks  pass  on 
The  shadow  deepens  on  the  beloved  face.  We 
are  now  told  that  our  father  is  very  ill,  and  urged 
to  be  quiet.  In  these  days,  we  do  much  as  we 
like— wander  about  the  field  at  the  back  of  our 
house,  and  through  the  shady  garden,  but  the 
spirit  of  gladness  has  left  our  young  hearte,  and 
we  go  hither  and  thither  with  a  strange  weight 
resting  on  ue.     Fatigued,  we  sit  beneath  the  aged 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    A    SENSITIVE    SPIRIT, 


105 


elm.    The  happy  birds  sing  in  its  branches.    Far  ] 
oflf,  the  cattle  are  lowing  in  the  meadows,  and 
sheep  bleating  on  the  hillside.     The  busy  hum  of 
haymakers  comes  to  us,  but  it  does  not  make  us 
merry  as  once  it  did. 

Then  come  times  of  deeper  gloom.  We  all 
tread  on  tiptoe.  We  just  step  within  our  father's 
room.  His  breath  is  very  short  and  quick,  and 
his  eyes  are  bright— oh,  how  bright  !  He  places 
his  hand  upon  our  heads,  and,  in  trembling  ac- 
cents, commits  us  to  our  Heavenly  Father.  We 
hear  him  say  he  is  tired,  and  will  sleep.  All  is 
hushed.  He  closes  his  eyes.  We  watch  long  to 
see  him  wake,  but  he  is  now  a  pure  seraph  in  the 
presence  of  his  God ;  and,  through  life's  pilgrim- 
age, he  is  henceforth  to  be  to  those  who  love 
him  a  memory,  a  dream  of  other  days,  and  yet  a 
burning  and  shining  light,  whose  rays  penetrate 
not  the  less  because  they  are  mild  and  benign. 

For  some  time  after  this  event  all  seems  a 
blank.    There  is  a  sale  at  our  house.     Our  cher- 
ished   things   are   going  to   be    taken    from  us. 
Then  I  understand  that  we  are  poor.     My  mother 
has  a  little,  but  not  enough  for  our  support :  so 
she  is  fain  to  accept  an  offer  that  has  been  made 
her  by  a  distant  relative,  who  keeps  a  boarding- 
school  for  young  ladies  in  a  distant  country.     My 
motlier  is  to  assist  in  the  school.     She  does  not 
much  like  the  scheme.     She  is  telling  all  to  a 
sympathizing   friend.     She   speaks  rather   in   a 
shuddering  way  of  her  relative,  whom  she  de- 
scribes as  overbearing  and  tyrannical.     Hence- 
forth 1  look  on  this  lady  as  a  kind  of  dragon,  and 
my  state  of  mind  towards  her  is  not  such  as  to 
insure  her  regard.     I  cannot  now  speak  of  the 
tokens  of  affection  we  receive  from  our  loving 
friends.     Now  the  children  call  with  nosegays  of 
wild  flowers.     Now  my  little  brother  has  a  rab- 
bit given   him  ;  I  a  canary.      Now   cakes   and 
sweetmeats  are  thrust  into  our  hands  from  hum- 
ble donors,  wilh  tears  and  blessings.     Now  my 
mother  receives  anonymous  gifts,  from  a  fifty 
dollar  bill  down  to  a  pair  of  knitted  stockings  to 
travel  in,  accompanied  by  an  ill-spelt,  ill-written 
blessing  and  prayer,  "  that  the  Almiglity  will  set 
his  two  eyes  on  the  purty  lady  and  her  children, 
and  make  his  honor's  bed  in  Heaven,  although  he 
did  not  worshyp  the  blessed  Vargin."   My  mother 
smiles  through  her  tears,  for  she  knows  this  is 
from  old  Judy,  our  Catholic  neighbor,  whom,  in  a 
tit  of  illness,  she  befriended,  long  ago.     And  so, 
after  much  loving  leave-taking,  we  depart,  and 
at  length  reach  our  destinatiou. 

And  now  we  take  a  timid  survey  of  our  new 
abode.  It  is  a  gaunt  brick  building,  large  and 
stately,  with  "  Miss 's  School  for  Young  La- 
dies" inscribed  on  a  brass  plate  on  the  door.     I 


hold  my  mother's  hand,  and  feel  that  it  trembles, 
as  we  are  ushered  into  a  stark,  staring  room> 
which,  at  this  cool  season  of  the  year,  is  without 
fire.  The  door  opens,  and  our  relative  appears- 
She  imprints  a  fashionable  kiss  on  my  mother's 
pale  cheek,  and  notices  our  presence  by  the 
words,  "Fine  children,  but  very  countryfied,  my 
dear  cousin."  We  have  tea  in  a  small  parlor, 
where  is  a  fire,  but  I  observe  that  my  mother 
cannot  eat ;  and,  little  Edward  bursting  into  a  fit 
of  crying,  with  the  words,  "  I  do  not  like  this 
house — I  want  to  go  home,"  we  are  all  dissolved 

together,  at  which  Miss frowns  mentally, 

ejaculating,  "  No  spirit,  no  energy — a  bad  begin- 
ning, truly."  I  wonder,  in  my  simple  soul,  wliat 
this  energy  means,  of  which  my  mother  has  been 
said  to  be  deficient.  It  cannot  be  that  she  has 
done  wrong  in  letting  those  tears  flow,  which  have 
filled  her  eyes  so  often  during  the  day,  for  I  have 
often  seen  people  weep  at  our  house  in  the  olden 
time,  when  they  have  been  relating  their  troubles, 
when  my  father's  gentle  eye  would  grow  more 
kind,  his  voice  more  soft.  He  would  then  speak 
another  language,  which  now  I  know  to  be  the 
language  of  promise,  breathed  by  the  great  Eter- 
nal himself  into  the  ear  of  his  suffering  ones. 

I  pass  over  some  weeks,  during  which  my 
mother  has  been  duly  installed  into  her  ofHce  of 
teacher — rising  early,  to  give  lessons  before  break- 
fast ;  afterwards  walking  out  with  the  young  peo- 
ple ;  then  teaching  all  through  the  livelong  day, 
till  evening  brings  some  repose.  She  always 
puts  us  to  bed  herself,  and  this  is  not  a  very  hur- 
ried operation,  for  we  clasp  her  round  the  neck, 
call  her  "dear  mamma,"  and  tell  her  how  much 
we  love  her.  She  will  then  listen  to  our  simple 
devotions,  and  tear  herself  away.  Then  we  hear 
her  in  a  room  adjoining,  pouring  forth  her  soul  in 
song.  She  sings  the  old  lay?,  but  there  is  an- 
other tone  mingling  with  them— one  that  affects 
the  listener  lo  tears ;  for,  stealing  out  of  bed  and 
opening  the  door,  I  have  met  other  listeners, 
wliose  gay,  young  faces  showed  that  those  sad- 
dened melodies  had  touched  some  mysterious 
cliord,  awaking  it  to  sadness  and  tears. 

My  mother  was  greatly  beloved  by  tlie  young 
people.  I  soon  found  out  that  this  fact  was  any- 
thing but  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of  the  lady  supe- 
rior, who  could  not  imagine  how  a  person  so  de- 
void of  energy,  as  she  termed  it,  could  possess  so 
much  influence.  Nevertheless,  this  best  of  all 
influence — the  influence  of  aff'ection — was  pos- 
sessed in  no  common  degree.  With  what  zest 
and  pleasure  was  every  little  office  rendered— 
with  what  sweetmeats  were  we  feasted — what 
bouquets  were  placed  on  my  mother's  table — what 
numerous  presents  of  needle-work  were  made  her 


106 


'TO     THE    UNKNOWN     GOD." 


— how  her  wishes  were  anticipated — I  know  well. 
I  know,  too,  how  much  my  dear  parent  suffered  in 
this  house — how  unequal  her  strength  was  to  her 
labors — how  the  incessant  small  tyranny  to  which 
elie  was  subjected  ate  out  all  the  life  of  her  spirit. 
Still  she  never  complained  ;  but  I  could  hear  her 
sometimes,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  weeping 
bitterly,  and  calling  on  her  beloved  dead,  who, 
when  en  earth,  had  never  allowed  one  shadow  to 
cross  her  path  which  he  could  avert. 

Thus  four  years  were  passed,  during  which  my 
brother  died.  This  second  blow  pierced  me  to 
tlie  heart,  but,  strange  to  say,  mamma  bore  it 
calmly.  I  wondered  at  her,  till  I  noticed  how 
very  thin  she  had  become — how  very  trembling 
and  frightened  with  every  little  thing — and  how 
attentive  the  young  people  were  to  her  wishes. 
Then  the  old  agony  came  over  my  heart,  and  I 
knew  all. 

About  this  time,  a  gentleman  who  had  known 
and  loved  my  father,  dying,  left  my  mother  a 
legacy  of  five  hundred  dollars.  This  sum  enabled 
her  to  take  a  house  near  our  old  home,  and  here, 
some  two  months  after  our  return,  she  died,  in 
the  full  assurance  of  faith.  Our  faithful  old  Sally 
was  now  married  to  an  honest  farmer,  and  from 
this  good  creature  we  received  much  kind  atten- 
tion. 

***** 

I  pass  over  some  years,  in  which  I  experienced 


all  the  trials  of  a  shabby-genteel  life  at  a  large 
school,  where  I  was  placed  by  the  kindness  of  a 
distant  friend.  After  trials  and  vicissitudes  of  no 
ordinary  kind,  1  found  myself,  by  the  death  of  a 
distant  relative,  whose  name  I  had  never  heard, 
entitled  to  what  might  be  esteemed  a  large  for- 
tune. "Wit  hthis  wealth,  which  to  my  young  ima- 
gination seemed  boundless,  I  retired  to  my  na- 
tive village,  in  the  quiet  shades  to  enjoy  the 
peace  for  which  I  had  long  sighed. 


A  stranger  hand  writes  that  Mary resided 

for  some  time  in  the  retreat  she  had  chosen,  the 
idolized  of  the  poor,  the  friend  of  the  afHicted, 
more  like  an  angel  than  aught  belonging  to  this 
lower  sphere,  yet  showing  that  she  was  of  the 
earth,  by  the  look  of  tender  melancholy  which 
haunted  her  cheek,  and  said  how  hurely,  "early 
griefs  a  lengthened  shadow  fling."  She  died  in 
her  youthful  bloom,  and  the  bitter  sobs  and  la- 
mentations of  the  poor  testified  to  her  worth. 
Her  money  still  remains  for  them  in  perpetuity, 
but  the  meek,  dove-like  eyes  are  darkened,  and 
gone  the  voice  whose  music  made  many  glad- 
So  have  we  seen  a  stream  suddenly  dried  up 
whose  presence  was  only  known  by  the  verdure 
on  its  margin,  scarcely  known,  scarcely  cared  for, 
except  by  the  humble  floweret,  but,  when  gone 
its  absence  was  deplored  by  the  sterility  where 
once  were  bloom  and  freshness. 


*'T0    THE     Ui^  KNOWN    GOD." 


B  T 


D  .      STRONG 


Thou  dread  Almighty  Power, 

Who  wrap'st  Thyself  in  mystery, 

And  work'st  unseen  in  every  flower, 
Unveil  Thyself  to  me  '. 

I  see  Thee  in  the  morning  dew, 

I  hear  Thee  in  the  evening  wind, 

Thy  glory  in  the  cloud  I  view. 
And  in  the  storm  sublime, 

I  feel  Thee  at  the  solemn  hour. 

When  stars  their  vigils  keep — 

When  the  Moon's  soft  twilight  power 
Rests  on  a  world  asleep. 

The  lurid  flash  of  winged  light 

Writes  Thy  dread  name  on  high 


The  cloud's  deep  voice  proclaims  Thy  might, - 
Thy  presence  fills  the  sky. 

The  forest's  deep  and  darkling  shade 

Is  all  instinct  with  Thee, 
And  every  bright  and  sunny  glade 

Proclaims  Thy  mystery. 

Where'er  I  am,  whate'er  behold, 

I  feel  Thy  wond'rous  power  ; 
Thine  unknown  influence  'round  my  soul 

Is  present  every  hour. 

Thou  dread  Almighty  cause  ! 

My  spirit  sighs  for  Thee  ; 
Unfold  Thy  deep  mysterious  laws, 

Reveal  Thyself  to  me  ! 


*'  A   THING    OF    BEAUTY    IS    A  JOY  FOR   EVER." 


Beautv  !  what  can  be  said  of  it?  what  is  it? 
I  look  around,  to  see  some  object  specially  beau- 
tiful, on  which  to  expend  my  panegyrics.  There 
is  the  deep  fatliomless  azure  above  me  ;  there  is 
the  sea,  the  wild,  open,  careering  ocean  ;  there  is 
that  bright  clear  eye  which  ever  lights  my  soli- 
tude ;  there  is  a  fair  girl,  a  beautiful  boy  ;  there 
are  the  stars  looking  down  from  heaven  ;  there  is 
beauty  in  the  human  countenance,  beauty  in  looks, 
beauty  in  thoughts,  beauty  in  action?.  "What 
shall  I  say  ?  I  am  bewildered  ;  beauty  over- 
whelms me.  I  am  dumb,  who  would  emulate 
the  oratory  of  an  archangel.  I  am  lost  in  the 
magnitude  of  my  theme — in  its  supernal  gran- 
deur its  surpassing  loveliness,  its  overwhelming 
import. 

Beauty  is  the  spirit  of  nature  peering  faintly 
througli  the  inspissated  gloom  of  sin.  Beauty  is 
the  shadow  of  God.  Beauty  is  truth,  a  consisten- 
cy between  man  and  his  maker.  Beauty  is  the 
soul  striving  to  make  itself  visible.  Beauty  is 
love's  object  always.  Beauty  is  a  nectar  which 
intoxicates  the  soul.  Beauty  is  the  paradise  of 
all  time.  Beauty  is  a  congealed  dream  of  heaven. 
Beauty  is  nature's  memory  of  Eden.  Beauty  is 
the  sculptured  phantasm  of  innocence.  Beauty 
is  Fichte's  "  divine  idea"  dimly  explaining  itself. 
Beauty  is  an  engraven  word  of  God.  Beauty  is 
man's  voucher  of  immortality.  Beauty  is  visible 
music.  Beauty,  understood  aright,  is  an  idiosyn- 
crasy of  virtue.  Beauty  is  tlie  true  meaning  of 
poetry.  But  after  all  nothing  is  said  ;  and  a 
tiiinker,  a  sensitive  mind,  will  extract  more  from 
the  simple  word  itself  than  can  be  embodied  in  a 
hundred  varnis^lied  phrases. 

In  all  natural  things  can  be  discovered  some 
faint  trace  of  beauty.  The  Greeks  called  the 
word  cosmos  (the  beautiful).  There  is  beauty  in 
the  stars,  pearls  round  the  tiara  of  midnight ;  the 
stars,  mysterious  heaven-ligiits  to  serve  the  spi- 
rit's flight  to  paradise.  Beauty  sleeps  on  the 
calm  dreary  bosom  of  the  ocean,  or  lives  in  the 
dance  of  its  wild  waves.  It  is  fabled  that  Venus 
was  born  of  the  froth  of  the  sea.  The  highest 
voice  ever  heard  on  this  earth  said  withal,  "  Con- 
sider the  lilies  of  the  field,  they  toil  not,  neither 
do  they  spin ;  yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these."  A  glance  that 
into  the  deepest  deep  of  beauty.  The  lilies  of 
the   field,   dressed   finer   than    earthly   princes, 

8 


springing  up  tiiere  iu  the  humble  furrow-field  ;  a 
beautiful  eye  looking  out  on  you  from  tlie  great 
inner  sea  of  beauty  !  How  could  the  rude  earth 
make  these,  if  her  essence,  rugged  as  she  looks 
and  is,  were  not  inwardly  beauty.  Tliere  is  beau- 
ty in  a  faded  leaf  or  a  pebble  ;  in  the  song  of  the 
waterfall,  or  the  whispering  zephyr  ;  beauty 
everj'where. 

Beauty  is  a  tleep,  unfatliomabe  trutli ;  it  lies 
deeper  than  the  eye  can  penetrate  after  it.  Beau- 
ty is  the  deejiest  thing  this  cai  th  can  boast  of,  the 
most  profound,  the  most  mysterious.  If  men  can- 
not comprehend  its  deep  si^jnificance,  its  sweet, 
musical  voice,  its  almost  eternal  meaning,  yet 
will  be  found  many  that  will  sit  enchained  by 
that  inarticulate  stream  of  melod}'  wliich  ever 
flows  from  a  thing  of  beauty.  Beauty,  its  per- 
ception, its  feeling,  to  bathe  and  revel  in  beauty 
is  the  most  complete  human  delight  of  wliich 
man  is  capable ;  and  though  some  have  been 
mnrred  in  this  pure  faculty  of  enjoyment,  by 
rough  contact  with  a  host  of  unhandsome  beings 
and  circumstances,  yet  sometimes  a  ray  of  beauty 
will  pierce  to  their  benighted  heart,  and  send  a 
thrill  of  joy  through  tlieir  whole  being.  The 
man  will  sometimes  catch  a  faint  glimpse  of  that 
divinity,  and  then  again  be  lost  in  the  vortex  of 
utilitarianism. 

Besides  animal  beauty,  there  is  an  immaterial, 
intellectual  and  moral  beauty,  which  will  often 
entrance.  We  find  it  in  actions,  circumstances, 
and  expressions.  "  Leonidas  and  his  three  hun- 
dred martyrs  consume  one  day  in  dying,  and  the 
sun  and  moon  come  each  and  look  at  them 
once  in  the  steep  defile  of  Thermopylae ;  Arnold 
Winkelreid,  in  the  high  Alps,  under  the  shadow 
of  an  avalanche,  gathers  in  liis  side  a  sheaf  of 
Austrian  spears,  to  break  the  line  for  his  com- 
rades ;"*  Rousseau  breathes  out  his  soul  whilo 
gazing  in  calm  contemplation  on  the  glorj'  of  the 
sun  ;  the  dying  words  of  Mirab(;au  were,  ".Sprin- 
kle me  with  perfumes,  crown  me  with  flowers, 
tliat  I  may  thus  enter  upon  eternal  sleep."  The 
epitaph  of  Keats,  who  lies  buried  beside  the  form 
of  the  wild,  youthful,  misjudged  Shelly,  in  the 
beautiful  Protestant  cemetery  outside  the  walls 
of  ancient  Rome,  is  according  to  his  desire — 
"  Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water  ;" 
of  Dante,  "  Hie  claudor  Dantcs  patriis  exlorris 

•Emerson. 


lOS 


A    THING     OF    BEAUTY     IS    A    JOY    FOR    EVER, 


uborisy  But  to  liip  fairly  into  the  beauties  of 
expression,  poetry  would  prove  ;i  vain  attempt 
now. 

Many  and  varied  are  tlie  attempts  which  have 
been  made  to  philosophize  upon  beauty;  but,  for 
the  most  part,  unsatisfactory  and  conflicting  theo- 
ries only  have  resulted.  Alison  and  Jeffreys 
thought  they  had  explained  all  by  saying  that 
beauty  resides  only  in  a  man's  mind,  is,  in  fact, 
nothing  at  all  but  a  sentiment ;  so  that  a  thing  is 
beautiful  or  not,  just  as  it  is  thought  to  be  so. 
But  there  is  a  beauty  in  form  independent  of  every 
man's  conceits  and  fancies.  I  can  imagine  a  form 
wliich  would  captivate  the  whole  world  by  its 
tr;in-cendant  beauty.  The  A^enus  de  Medicis,  and 
some  other  of  the  productions  of  ancient  sculp- 
tors, may  be  talsen  as  approaches  to  this.  There 
are  countenances  to  be  met  with  in  the  world 
even  now,  which  no  man  living  would  dare  to 
call  other  than  beautiful.  Tliere  are  things  and 
situations  in  this  world  of  ours,  which  the  most 
obtuse  and  crotchety  of  us  could  not  forbear  term- 
ing beautifid.  Numerous  objections  strike  me  on 
first  entering  upon  this  theory;  and,  after  all, 
only  one  ingredient  or  constituent  of  beauty  is  ex- 
plained by  it.  It  is  well  worthy  of  investigation, 
however,  as  recognizing  some  fixed  principle  by 
which  our  appreciations  of  the  beautiful  are  gov- 
erned. 

There  is  something  singularly  fine  and  poetic, 
and  also  suggestive  of  much  truth,  in  the  ancient 
philosophy  of  beauty.  It  taught  "  tliat  the  soul 
of  man  embodied  here  on  earth,  went  roaming 
-up  and  down  in  quest  of  that  other  world  of  its 
own  out  of  which  it  came  into  this  ;  but  was  soon 
stupefied  by  the  light  of  the  natural  sun,  and  una- 
ble to  see  any  other  objects  but  those  of  this 
v.'orld,  which  are  but  shadows  of  real  things. 
Therefore  the  Deity  sends  the  glory  of  youth  be- 
fore the  soul,  that  it  may  avail  itself  of  the  beau- 
tiful bodies  as  aids  to  its  recollection  of  the  ce- 
lestial good  and  fair."  A  somewhat  similar  idea 
is  thus  beautifully  expressed  by  Tupper  : — 

Verily  the  fancy  may  be  false,  yet  it  hath  met  me  in  my 
musings, 

(As  expounding  the  pleasantness  of  pleasure,  yet  noways 
extenuating  license), 

That  even  those  yearnings  after  beauty  in  wayward  wan- 
ton youth, 

When,  guileless  of  ulterior  ends,  it  craveth  but  to  look  upon 
the  lovely, 

!~eem  like  struggles  of  the  soul,  dimly  remembering  pre- 
existence, 

And  feeling  in  its  blindness  for  a  long-lost  God,  to  satisfy 
its  longing. 

The  love  of  beauty  is  an  instinct  implanted  in 
the  soul.  It  craveth  "  but  to  look  upon  the  love- 
ly." They  in  whom  this  earnest  love  of  the 
beautiful  has  been  cultivated  and  developed,  will 


find  in  beauty  more  than  a  toy  to  be  played  with 
It  seems  something  more  than  mere  tinsel  and 
overcast  ornament.  It  is  the  developed  thought 
of  God.  It  bears  the  impress  of  the  Deity. 
Beauty  is  true  nature — what  nature  would  liave 
been  altogether,  had  not  sin  marred  it,  "Beauty 
should  be  the  dowry  of  every  man  and  woman  as 
invariably  as  sensation ;  but  it  is  rare."  Why  ? 
Because  Vvhat  God  had  created  the  devil  has  mu- 
tilated. Beauty,  in  its  universal  sense,  and  ap- 
plied not  merely  to  things  material,  but  to  deeds 
and  thoughts,  is  the  connecting  link  between  man 
and  his  Maker  ;  it  is  that  which  typifies  Ilis  su- 
preme beauty  and  loveliness  who  created  the 
earth  once  in  purity. 

xVU  the  most  refined  pleasures  and  enjoyments 
of  human  life  may  be  summed  up  in  these  words, 
which  are  significant  of  ideas  the  grandest  and 
most  profound,  yet  withal  the  most  undefinable 
and  least  understood  in  the  vocabulary  of  hu- 
manity,— Truth,  Beauty,  and  Love.  These  tJiree 
we  find  singularly  related  and  linked  together ; 
Love  is  the  most  beautiful  of  the  affections,  and 
the  most  truthful,  truest  to  nature — it  is  never  re- 
pented of  Beauty  is  everywhere  loveable  ;  love 
is  essentially  beautiful.  Beauty  cannot  exist  with- 
out truth:  no  truth  but  is  beautiful.  Beauty  then 
is  Truth,  or  rather  its  attribute  ;  and  in  this  is  com- 
prehended our  philosophy  of  the  beautiful.  If  it 
were  not  for  the  beauty  of  the  creature,  what 
true  relationships  could  be  found  to  its  Creator  ? 
But  in  so  far  as  it  is  beautiful  mentally  as  well  as 
physically,  it  truly  and  genuinely  answers  the 
purpose  of  its  being.  That  which  is  beautiful 
agrees  with  the  thought  of  God — God  creates 
beauty  only.  Beauty  is  the  shadow  of  God — 
anything  that  is  not  beautiful  is  a  base  counter- 
feit engrafted  on  that  once  fair  creation  by  sin 
and  Satan.  Beauty  is  truth,  for  it  is  the  sole 
manifestation  of  the  God  of  truth.  The  just,  the 
ri<>-ht,  the  good,  is  the  beautiful ;  that  is  a  fine  re- 
mark of  Emerson,  that  beauty  ever  steals  in  like 
air,  and  envelopes  noble  actions.  There  is  an  ob- 
servation of  Coleridge,  too,  which  bears  upon  this 
point,  carrying  out  the  idea  even  to  beauty  of  ex- 
pression. It  is,  that  whenever  you  find  a  sen- 
tence musically  worded,  of  true  rhythm  and  melo- 
dy in  the  words,  there  is  something  deep  and 
good  in  the  meaning,  too.  Let  us  cultivate  the 
beautiful,  therefore,  in  its  widest  sense,  and  the 
love  of  it,  that  we  may  answer  the  end  of  life.  To 
conclude  in  the  words  of  one  of  the  most  earnest 
lovers  of  beauty  : — 

For  love  and  beauty  and  delight 
There  is  no  death  nor  change  ;  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
]N'o  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 


ORIGINAL    ANECDOTES  OF  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 


BY      K  E  V.      J  . 


T  C  T  T  L  ■£ 


Among  the  many  tra(lltion3  of  Morris  County, 
(N".  J.)  are  found  some  anecdotes  worthy  of  pre- 
servation. Everything  ilhistrating  the  character 
and  habits  of  General  Wasliington,  especially  his 
religious  habits,  is  sought  with  avidity.  The 
writer  of  this  article  supposes  that  the  following 
fine  anecdotes  of  Washington  and  his  lady  are 
published  novr  for  tiie  first  time.  Hearing  some 
intimations  of  such  a  tradition,  much  time  and 
labor  Were  devoted  to  authenticate  and  locate 
the  incident  in  which  Washington  himself  figures. 
From  two  sources,  perfectly  reliable,  the  writer 
learned  tliat  Wasliington  was  fond  of  singing 
AVatts'  Psalms,  aud  that  one  Psalm — not  specify- 
ing it — was  a  favorite  with  him.  From  a  highly 
intelligent  lady  the  more  distinct  information 
was  gained,  that  an  old  lady,  formerly  a  resident 
of  Columbia,  Jlorris  County,  was  accustonied  to 
relate  this  anecdote  substanially  as  here  given. 
It  is  incredible  that  a  tradition  so  definite  in  its 
substance  and  localities,  should  have  been  manu- 
factured. It  wears,  to  say  the  least,  a  very 
plausible  and  truthful  countenance. 

A  few  miles  west  of  Newark,  is  to  be  seen  a 
fine  range  of  high  hills.  From  one  particular 
spot,  about  one  mile  from  the  village  of  Spring- 
field, is  to  be  obtained  one  of  the  most  charming 
views  in  our  State.  Tiie  eye  wanders  over  neat 
villages  and  ric!i  valleys,  taking  in  the  towns  of 
Flizabethtown  and  Ambo}',  the  cities  of  Newark 
aud  New  York.  Tiie  Passaic  and  Ilackensack 
rivers,  the  Newark  and  New  York  bays,  and  the 
Xarrows  are  so  visible,  that,  witli  aid  of  a  glass,, 
\i  small  boat  may  be  seen  at  any  point. 

It  is  said  tluit  during  the  Revolutionary  War  a 
sentinel  was  usual]}'-  stationed  on  this  rock,  espe- 
cially while  tiie  army  lay  at  Morristown. 

Tiie  time  when  this  anecdote  occurred,  isfi.ved 
by  tradition,  as  connected  with  the  last  battle  of 
Springfield,  in  1780.  Tlie  American  cause  wore 
a  most  unpromising  aspect.  The  harvest  was  at 
liand,  and  the  militiamen  were  constantly  draw- 
ing off  to  gather  in  their  grain,  leaving  tlie  force 
of  Washington  inadequate  to  the  emergency. 
There  was  a  powder  mill  at  Monistown,  and  the 


enemy,  under  tlie  supposition  that  there  were 
large  stores  there,  were  making  repeated  attempts 
to  roach  that  place.  The  loss  of  this  place  and 
the  stores  would  not  be  measured  by  their  value 
in  money,  so  much  as  the  effect  it  would  have  to 
dispirit  our  countiymen.  The  venerable  relicts 
of  those  times  still  bear  witness  to  the  panic 
which  was  beginning  to  seize  on  the  minds  of 
all  classes.  Some,  discouraged  by  a  protracted 
and  distressing  war,  reproached  Washington ; 
some  felt  that  the  struggle  was  a  hopeless  one; 
and  some,  perliaps,  were  meditating  a  plan  of 
reconciliation  witli  the  enemy.  Tlie  currency 
was  almost  wortliless;  in  one  case  a  cow  valued 
at  thirty  dollars,  being  barely  sufficient  to  pur- 
chase a  quart  of  wine,  and  in  another,  the  price 
of  a  farm,  taken  in  continental  money,  sunk  to 
some  ten  doUars  in  silver.  It  was  a  dark  day 
in  the  Jerseys. 

At  this  time  Washington  spent  much  time  at 
iiorristown,  and  then,  as  ever,  exhibited  perfoet 
calmness.  There  v.as  something  unearthly  in  the 
bearing  of  the  man,  something  scarcely  allied  to 
the  common  infirmities  of  mankind.  Whatever 
were  their  hopes  and  fears,  tlie  citizens  and 
soldiers  of  this  country  admired  him.  To  road 
the  histories  which  have  been  written  of  Wash- 
ington, we  should  suppose  that  because  he  was  ;i 
great,  a  brave,  a  self-reliant  and  self-sustaining 
man,  he  was  able  to  i)ursue  a  course  so  truly 
magnanimous  in  lliose  perilous  days. 

The  anecdote  of  W.asliington's  being  found  fve- 
quently  in  pra^'er,  is  related  by  liis  chaplain,  and 
is  associated  with  Valley  Forge  ;  but  this  anecdote 
here  related  throws  a  most  amiable  liglit  over  his 
character,  and  shows  him  to  have  been  a  man  of 
like  passions  and  sympathies  witli  ourselves.  It 
pi'oves  that  his  calm  and  noble  bearing  was  tlie 
offspring,  not  of  mere  human  wisdom  aud  brave- 
ry, but  of  reliance  on  God. 

Tradition  states  that  Washington  frequently 
rode  to  the  place  west  of  Sjiringfield,  already 
described,  for  the  purpose  of  reconnoitring  the 
country  below,  and  watching  the  movements  of 
the  encniy.     About  llic  time  tlie  last  battle  at 


110       ORIGINAL    ANECDOTES    OF    GENEEAL    WASHINGTON 


Springfield  Tv^as  fought,  one  morning  he  rode 
-with  some  of  his  staff  officers  to  this  place,  and 
after  reconnoitring,  he  was  observed  to  go  to  a 
retired  place  not  far  distant.  He  was  tliere  seen 
to  kneel  in  a  most  reverent  attitude,  and  to  con- 
tinue for  some  time  in  prayer.  After  rising  from 
liis  knees,  he  seated  himself  on  a  rock,  and  seemed 
lost  in  thought.  His  whole  appearance  indicated 
the  troubled  feelings  which  were  agitating  him. 
At  last  he  was  heard  to  sing  or  repeat — tradition 
says  he  sung — the  whole  of  the  one  hundred  and 
s(!Cond  Psalm,  second  part,  common  metre,  Watts' 
vei-sion.  They  are  so  appropriate  to  his  condi- 
tion and  feeling,  that  had  Watts  been  his  bosom 
companion,  he  could  not  have  better  suited  words 
to  the  occasion.  Lest  .some  may  fail  to  recur  to 
their  Hymn  Books,  I  will  copy  the  Psalm  entire. 

1.  Hear  me,  0  God,  nor  hide  thy  face, 

But  answer  lest  I  die  ; 
Hast  thou  not  built  a  throne  of  grace, 
To  hear  when  sinners  cry  ? 

2.  My  days  are  wasted  like  the  smoke 

Dissolving  in  the  air  ; 
My  strength  is  dried  ;  my  heart  is  broke, 
And  sinking  in  despair. 

3.  My  spirits  flag  like  withering  grass 

Burnt  with  excessive  heat ; 
In  secret  groans  my  minutes  pass, 
And  I  forget  to  cat. 

4.  As  on  some  lonely  building's  top 

The  sparrow  tells  her  moan  ; 
Far  from  the  tents  of  joy  and  hDpe 
1  sit  and  grieve  alone. 

5.  My  sonl  is  like  a  wilderness. 

Where  beasts  of  midnight  how}  ; 
Where  the  sad  raven  finds  her  place, 
And  where  the  screaming  owl. 

6.  Dark  dismal  thoiJghts  and  boding  fears 

Dwell  in  my  troubled  breast ; 
While  sharp  reproaches  wound  mine  earj; 
Nor  give  my  spirits  rest. 

7.  My  cup  is  mingled  with  my  woes, 

And  tears  are  my  'epast  ; 
My  daily  bread  like  ashes  grows 
Unpleasant  to  my  tasie. 

8.  Sense  can  afford  no  real  joy 

To  souls  who  feel  thy  frown  ; 
Lord,  'twas  thy  hand  advanced  me  high. 
Thy  hand  hath  cast  me  down. 

9.  My  locks  like  withering  leaves  appear, 

And  life's  declining  light 
Grows  faint  as  evening  shadows  are. 
That  vani.sh  into  night. 

10.  But  thou  for  ever  art  the  same 
0  my  eternal  God  I 
Ages  to  come  shall  know  thy  name.         '         ^ 
And  spread  thy  works  abroad. 


11.  Thou  wilt  arise  and  show  thy  face. 

Nor  will  my  Lord  delay 
Beyond  the  appointed  hour  of  grace, 
That  long  expected  day. 

12.  He  hears  his  saint.-,  he  knows  their  cry, 

And  by  mysterious  ways 
Redeems  the  prisoners  doomed  to  die. 
And  fills  their  tongues  with  praise. 

By  recurring  to  the  history  of  the  revolution, 
it  will  be  found,  that  in  1780,  Cornwallis  was 
victorious  at  the  South,  and  the  treason  of  Arnold 
was  laying  its  diabolical  plans  at  the  north. 
Taking  these  facts  into  account,  the  anecdote  here 
recorded  is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  history  of  our 
own  Washington.  Let  our  children  learn  this 
Psalm,  which  was  sung  by  the  Father  of  his 
country  in  the  hour  of  her  darkest  peril,  and 
ever  remember  that  at  that  hour,  it  was  not 
human  bravery  whicli  sustained  him,  but  that 
his  support  and  courage  were  drawn  then,  as  at 
other  times,  from  God. 

ANECDOTE   OF    LADY    WASHINGTON. 

In  conversing  not  long  since  with  an  aged  lady 
of  Morris  County,  I  obtained  an  anecdote  con- 
cerning Lady  Washington,  so  entertaining  and 
admirable,  that  it  will  form  a  good  supjdement 
to  that  about  her  noble  husband. 

There  was  residing  in  Mori'is  County  a  Mrs- 
Troupe,  the  widow  of  a  lialf-pay  Britisli  captain. 
She  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house  of  a  Mrs. 
T.,  and  on  one  of  these  occasions,  befoi'e  she  had 
passed  the  usual  compliments,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  what  do  you  think,  Mrs.  T.  ?  I  have  been 
to  see  Lady  Washington !" 

"  Have  you  indeed !"  said  her  friend.  "  Then 
tell  nie  all  about  how  you  found  her  ladyship, 
how  she  appeared,  and  what  she  said." 

"  Well,  I  will  honestly  tell  you,"  replied  Mrs- 
Troupe,  "  that  I  never  was  so  ashamed  in  all  the 

days  of  my  life.     You  see,  Madame ,  and 

Madame  ,  and  Madame  — - — — ,  and  my- 
self thought  we  would  visit  Lady  Washington, 
and  as  she  was  said  to  be  so  grand  a  lady,  we 
thought  we  must  put  on  our  best  bibs  and  bands. 
So  we  dressed  ourselves  in  our  most  elegant 
ruffles  and  silks,  and  so  were  introduced  to  her 
ladyship.  And  don't  you  think  we  found  her 
knitting,  and  with  a  speckled  (check)  apron  on  ! 
She  received  us  very  graciously  and  easily,  but 
after  the  compliments  were  over,  she  resumed 
her  knitting.  There  we  were  without  a  stitch  of 
work,  and  setting  in  state,  but  General  Washing- 
ton's lady,  with  her  own  hands,  was  knitting 
stockings  for  her  husband  and  hei-self. 


A    SUMMER   EVENING. 


Ill 


"  And  that  was  not  all.  In  the  course  of  the 
afternoon  Bhe  took  occasion  to  say,  in  a  manner 
that  we  could  not  be  offended  at,  that  at  this  time 
it  was  very  important  that  American  ladies 
should  be  patterns  of  industry  to  their  country- 
women, because  the  separation  from  the  mother 
country  will  dry  up  the  sources  whence  many  of 
our  comforts  have  been  derived.  We  must  be- 
come independent,  by  our  determination  to  do 
without  what  we  cannot  make  for  ourselves. 
Whilst  our  husbands  and  brothers  are  examples 
of  patriotism,  we  must  be  patterns  of  industry." 


According  to  Mrs.  Troupe's  story,  Lady  Wash- 
ington gave  her  visitors  some  excellent  advice, 
the  meanwhile  adding  force  to  her  words  by  her 
actions.  In  all  this  she  proved  herself  more 
worthy  to  occupy  her  distinguished  position,  than 
she  could  have  done  by  all  the  graceful  and  ele- 
gant accomplishments  even  of  Josephine.  In  the 
relations  she  occupied,  her  knitting  work  and 
check  apron  were  queenly  ornaments,  and  we 
may  be  proud  to  know  that  such  a  woman  as 
Martha  Washington  set  such  an  admirable  exam- 
ple to  her  countrywomen ! 


A    SUMMER    EVENING 


The  winds  are  wKispering  with  the  waters, 

There  is  a  soul  of  melody  abroad ; 
The  moon,  -with  the  fair  stars  her  daughters. 

Ts  joining  in  the  gladsome  laud. 
Their  murmured  music  softly  swells 

In  spreading  circles  all  around, 
And  merrily  ring  the  village  bells. 

Filling  the  valley  with  waves  of  sound. 

The  hills  are  fused  into  the  sky — 

Each  hill  a  fading  cloudland  seems  ; 
IIow  quietly  the  daises  lie 

On  Nature's  bosom— full  of  dreams  ? 
A  voice  is  heard  among  the  trees, 

Like  passion's  whisper— low  and  deep  ; 
.^.nd  in  the  long  wild  fields  the  breeze 

Breathes  softly  as  a  child  asleep  : 
The  holy  queen  of  even  throws 

A  silver  glory  on  the  sod  ; 
And  all  the  universe  o'erflows 

With  the  deep  tenderness  of  God. 

Shall  there  be  none  to  bless  thee  ?    oh,  blessed  summer 
even ! 
Shall  there  be  none  to  blees  thee  ?  that  givest  to  our 
sight 
Earth  walking  in  the  borrowed  robes  of  heaven, 
Clothing  her  hills  and  valleys  with  delight. 
Yea,  there  are  those  shall  bless  thee  well, 

Wherever  they  wander — through  field  or  lane, 
By  the  bourne  side,  or  down  the  dell. 
Or  ankle  deep  in  the  wavy  grain  ; 
Wherever  they  wander,  sweet  night  of  June, 
With  warm  hands  clasped  and  wild  hearts  beating - 


Beating  softly  to  one  sweet  tune, 

Shall  they  not  give  thee  gladsome  greeting? 

A  deeper  beauty  such  sliall  view 
On  thy  fair  face,  than  others  ken, 

Love  can  create  all  things  anew, 
And  give  back  Paradise  to  men. 

Oh,  blessed  summer  night  1 — would  that  my  blessing 
Could  glad  thee  as  the  moonlight  or  the  dew, 

But  only  those  fresh  hearts  in  splendor  dressing 
All  things — can  give  th«  glory  that  they  view. 

Psalms  to  thy  beauty — could  I  ever  make  them  ? 

Blessings  would  change  to  curses  whilst  I  spake  them  ; 
The  flowers  of  song  would  wither  as  they  grew  : 

Only  that  joy  of  fesling  and  expression. 

Becomes  the  dowry  and  the  sweet  possession 
Of  the  unselfish,  beautiful,  and  true. 

God  give  them  joy  of  thee,  oh,  blessed  night  I 

God  give  them  joy  of  thee,  that  through  the  years 
A  thousand  sorrows  quench  not  thy  delight  ; 

As  rainbows  seen  through  storms,  as  smiles  through 
tears. 
Thy  memory  welling  freshly  up  may  be 

Perennial  in  their  hearts  ;  then  though  no  more 
Thou  canst  have  power  to  charm  or  comfort  me. 

Though  drowning  thy  s-.veet  songs,  I  hear  the  roar 
Of  mighty-voiced  waters  saying,  "nevermore  !" 
And  the  whitherless  wandering  of  the  wayward  sea 

Drifts  me  away— yet  courage,  0,  my  soul ! 
Seek  out  a  larger  sphere  wherem  to  think, 
In  self-destroying  consonance,  and  sink 

The  sorrowing  unit  in  the  joyful  whole. 


MOTIVES 


TiiERK  can  be  but  one  infallible  Judge  of  mo- 
tiveF.     Kone  but  its  Maker  can  see  into  the  se- 
cret springs,  and  clearly  comprehend  the  motions, 
of  the  mind.     Nevertheless,  the  "will  for  the 
deed "  is  an  old  understanding  among  mankind, 
in  virtue  of  that  inward  life,  whose  v.oild  and 
workings  they  know  to  extend  so  far  beyond  the 
visible.     It  is,  indeed,  the  privilege,  and,  in  some 
ecnse,  a  necessity,  of  human  reason,  to  inquire 
after,  at  least,  obvious  motives,  since  the  smallest 
acquaintance  with  character  or  history  cannot  be 
formed  without  taking  them  into  account.    Thus, 
in  the  biographies  of  notable  men,  in  the  liistories 
of  nations,  and  in  the  gossip  which  constitutes  the 
current  history  of  most  neighborhoods,  and  is  re- 
lished alike  by  the  denizens  of  court  and  hamlet, 
nobody  is  satisfied  with  knowing  merely  what 
was  done,  for  the  demand  invariably  follows  of 
"VVhy  they  did  do  it?    That  query  is  often  neces- 
sary to  legal,  and  always  to  moral,  justice.     It 
must  be,  so  to  speak,  a  most  mechanical  and  sur- 
face life,  whose  daily  doings  the  beholder  can 
fully  explain,  independent  of  any  reference  to  in- 
ward feelings,  unuttered  memories,  or  concealed 
liopes.     How  many  deeds  and  whole  courses  of 
action,  chameleon-like,  utterly  change  their  com- 
plexions, according  to  the  light  of  attributed  mo- 
tives 1     Through    that   medium,   the  patriot  of 
one  party  becomes  the  heartless  and  designing 
knave  of  another  ;  and  the  fanatical  revolutionists 
of  their  own  generation  turn  to  fearless  reformers 
with  the  next.     Many  an  act,  on  the  details  of 
which  most  historians  are  agreed,  is  held  up  by 
one  to  the  world's  praise,  and  by  anotlier  to  uni- 
versal censure.    Henri  Quatre,  says  the  first,  con- 
formed to  Catholicism  rather  than  continue  a  civil 
war  in  his  kingdom  ;  while  a  second  remarks  of 
the  same  monarch,  that  he  sacrificed  his  faith  for 
a  crown.     When  Frederick  William  of  Prussia 
■was  just  at  the  hottest  of  that  persecution  of  his 
celebrated  son,  for  which,  together  with  his  love 
of  tall  soldiers,  he  is  best  known  to  the  world, 
the  grand  dispute  amongst  his  favorite  guards  at 
Potsdam  was,  whether  the  kicks,  cufl's,  und  im- 
prisonments, which  the  old  king  bestowed  so  libe- 
rally on  his  heir  apparent,  were  intended  to  pre- 
vent young  Fritz  turning  an  infidel,  or  arose  from 
his  father's  fears  that  he  might  be  a  greater  man 
than  himself!     On  no  subject  are  mankind  more 
apt  to  differ,  probably  because  there  are  ftw  on 


which  observation  affords  so  much  inferential, 
and  so  little  direct  evidence. 

Approaching  the  innermost  circles  of  private 
life,  we  find  that  the  views  entertained  of  motives 
exercise  a  still  greater  influence  in  determining 
our  estimation  of  kindred,  friends,  or  lovers. 

There  is  a  strange  difference  of  opinion  existing 
at  times  between  the  principals  and  tiie  specta- 
tors of  these  particular  affairs.  Few,  it  has  been 
said,  can  penetrate  the  motives  of  others  in  mat- 
ters regarding  themselves.  Yet  most  people  are 
wonderfully  sharp-sighted  where  their  neighbors 
are  concerned  ;  and  the  world— as  every  one  of  us 
is  apt  to  call  that  fraction  of  society  in  which  we 
live,  and  move,  and  have  our  associations — though 
generally  not  over-charitable,  is  rarely  wrong  in 
its  conclusions. 

There  have  been  friendships  that  owed  their 
growth  solely  to  showers  of  flattery,  and  bitter 
enmities  have  spontaneously  sprung  up  in  the  soil 
of  envy.  It  was  said  of  Goldsmith,  that  he  could 
never  hear  a  brother  poet,  or,  indeed,  any  citizen 
of  the  world  of  letters,  praised,  without  entertain- 
ing a  temporary  aversion  to  that  individual;  and 
a  similar  effect  was  always  produced  by  tlie 
smallest  sign  of  increasing  literary  consequence. 

A  report  that  M had  been  taken  particular 

notice  of  by  such  a  nobleman  of  those  patronizing 
times,  or  that  his  works  had  been  admired  in 
some  segment  of  the  fashionable  circle,  was  suffi- 
cient to  make  the  author  of  the  'Deserted  Vil- 
lage "  find  all  manner  of  faults  with  him  and  his, 
till  time,  or  his  habitual  good  nature,  wiped  the 
circumstance  out  of  Goldsmith's  remembrance. 

It  was  asserted  of  both  the  elder  and  younger 
Scaliger,  that  they  never  applauded  any  scholar 
with  all  their  might,  but  one  who  was  manifestly 
inferior  to  themselves ;  and  of  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon,  that  she  never  honored  any  one  with  her 
special  friendship,  who  was  not,  in  some  consider- 
able point,  beneath  her.  There  is  still  a  large 
class  of  characters,  in  all  whose  attachments  a 
something  to  despise  seems  the  indispensable  in- 
gredient. The  perpetual  triumph  of  being  always 
"  king  of  the  company"  has  a  binding  attraction 
for  such  minds.  It  confers  a  kind  of  dictatorship 
to  have  the  advantage  of  one's  friends.  Nothing 
else  can  explain  the  amount  of  patronage  and  be. 
friendin-i'  generally  lavished  on  tlie  most  worth- 
less  members  of  families  or  societies,  and  the 


MOTIVES. 


lis 


half-grudge,  half  surveillance,  which,  under  the 
covert  of  mere  niouth-lionor,  often  surrounds  great 
or  successful  abilities. 

A  strange  motive  to  enmity  is  illustrated  in  the 
life  of  General  Loudoun,  one  of  the  Scotch  Jacob- 
ites, who,  on  the  defeat  of  his  party,  entered  the 
Austrian  service,  and  rose  to  the  rank  of  field- 
marshal  in  the  wars  of  JIaria  Tlieresa.  He  had 
takt-n  tlic  town  of  Seidlitz  from  the  Prussians.  It 
was  a  great  stroke  in  favor  of  the  empress  queen, 
and  miglit  have  been  rewarded  witii  a  coronet, 
but,  in  his  haste  to  semi  lier  majesty  tlie  intelli- 
gence, Loudoun  tran-iiuitted  it  through  her  hus- 
band, the  Empeior  i''runcis,  wlio  Iiad  a  private 
interest  in  the  matter,  havinj^  long  carried  on  a 
speculation  of  his  own,  in  victualling  not  only  his 
wife's  troops,  but  those  of  her  Prussian  enemy. 
King  Maria,  as  slie  was  styled  by  her  Hungarian 
subjects,  had  also  some  special  reasons  for  allow- 
ing liim  to  liave  neitliur  liand  nor  voice  in  her 
concerns — a  fact  which  the  marshal  iiad  never 
learned,  or  forgotten  ;  and  her  majesty  was  so  in- 
dignant at  receiving  the  news  through  such  a 
channel,  that,  though  she  struck  a  medal  to  com- 
memorate the  taking  of  Seidlitz,  Loudoun  was 
rewarded  only  with  her  peculiar  aversion  tiirough- 
out  the  remaining  seventeen  years  of  her  reign, 
for  which  the  good  wishes  of  that  imperial  specu- 
lator in  forage  and  flour  afforded  but  poor  conso- 
lation. 

Matrimony  Avould  seem  to  be  the  result  of  the 
greatest  variety  of  motives.  Goethe  said  he 
married  to  attain  popular  respectability.  John 
Wilkes,  when  suing  his  wife,  who  chanced  to 
have  been  an  heiress,  for  the  remains  of  her  pro- 
perty, declared  that  he  had  wedded  at  twenty- 
two,  solely  to  please  his  friends  ;  and  Wycherly 
the  poet,  in  his  very  last  days,  worshipped  and 
endowed  with  all  his  worldly  good-,  as  the  Eng- 
lish service  hath  it,  a  girl  whom  poverty  had 
made  unscrupulous,  in  order  to  be  revenged  on 
his  relations. 

Princes  of  old  were  in  the  habit  of  marrying  to 
cement  treaties,  which  were  generally  broken  as 
soon  after  as  possible;  and  simple  citizens  are 
still  addicted  to  the  same  method  of  amending 
their  fortunes  and  families.  There  was  an  origi- 
nal motive  to  double  blessedness  set  forth  in  the 
advice  of  a  veteran  English  sportsman.  His  niece 
was  the  heiress  of  broad  lands,  which  happened 
to  adjoin  an  estate  belonging  to  a  younger  brother 
of  the  turf;  and  the  senior  gentleman,  when  di- 
lating to  her  ou  the  exploits  they  had  performed 
together  by  wood  and  wold,  wound  up  with  the 
following  sage  counsel  : — "  Maria,  take  my  advice, 
and  marry  young  Beechwood,  and  you'll  see  this 
county  hunted  in  style." 


i|  The  numbers  who,  by  their  own  account,  have 
■wedded  to  benefit  society,  in  one  shape  or  an- 
other, would  furnish  a  stiong  argument  against 
th(!  accredited  selfishness  of  mankind,  could  they 
only  be  believed.  The  general  good  of  their 
country  was  the  standing  excuse  of  classic  times, 
and  philosophers  have  occasionally  reproduced  it 
in  our  own.  Most  people  seem  to  think  some 
apology  necessary,  but  none  are  so  ingenious  in 
sliowing  cause  why  they  should  enter  the  holy 
state,  as  those  with  whom  it  is  the  second  experi- 
ment, '1  lie  pleas  of  tliH  widowed  for  ca.sting  off 
their  weeds  are  generally  prudent,  and  often  sin- 
gularly commendable.  Domestic  policy  or  pa- 
rental affection  supply  the  greater  part  of  them  : 
and  tlie  want  of  protectors  and  stepmothers  felt 
by  families  of  all  sizes  is  truly  marvellous,  con- 
sidering the  usual  consequences  of  their  instal- 
ment. 

The  Russians  have  a  story  of  a  widow  who  was 
inconsolable  for  her  loss,  till  the  spirit  of  her  de- 
parted husband  appeared,  with  a  request  that  she 
should  marry  without  delay.  But  a  Catholic 
peasant  in  the  south  of  Ireland  once  pleaded  a 
still  higher  motive  for  his  second  wedding.  The 
bride  was  of  a  '■  Prodestand  "  family,  and  Pat 
averred  that  he  "nivcr  would  hive  put  a  ring  on 
a  woman's  finger  after  his  darlint  Rose,  if  it  hadn't 
been  to  save  the  soule  of  that  crayther." 

It  is  to  be  admired,  as  the  speakers  of  old  Eng- 
lish would  say,  for  what  noble  things  men  will 
give  themselves  credit  in  the  way  of  motives,  and 
how  little  resemblance  their  actions  bear  to  them. 
Doings  far  more  unlikely  than  those  of  the  widow- 
ed peasant  have,  according  to  the  actors,  origina- 
ted from  the  purest  motives.  Montaigne  was 
accustomed  to  tell  of  a  servant  belonging  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Paris,  who,  being  detected  in  pri- 
vately selling  his  master's  best  wine,  insisted 
that  it  was  done  out  of  pure  love  to  his  grace,  lest 
the  sight  of  so  large  a  stock  in  his  cellar  might 
tempt  him  to  drink  more  than  was  commendable 
for  a  bishop. 

A  guardian  care  of  their  neighbors'  well  being, 
somewhat  similar,  is  declared  by  all  the  disturb- 
ers of  our  daily  paths.  Tale-bearers  andretnark- 
ers  of  every  variety  have  the  best  interests  of 
their  friends  at  heart :  and  what  troublesome 
things  some  people  can  do  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
is  a  matter  of  universal  experience.  Great  pub- 
lic criminal.-,  tyrants,  and  persecutors  in  old  times, 
and  the  abusers  of  power  in  all  ages,  have,  espe- 
cially in  the  fall  of  their  autliority,  laid  claim  to 
most  exalted  motives.  Patriotism,  philanthropy, 
and  religion  itself,  have  been  quoted  as  their  in- 
spirers.  The  ill  famed  Judge  Jettries  said  his  ju- 
dicial crimes  were  perpetrated  to  maintain  the 


114 


MOTIVES. 


majesty  of  the  law.  Eobespierre  affirmed  that 
lie  had  lived  in  defence  of  virtue  and  his  country. 
But  perhaps  the  most  charitable  interpretation 
that  ever  man  gave  to  the  motives  of  another,  is 
to  be  found  in  the  funeral  sermon  of  Frederick, 
Prince  of  Wales,  and  father  of  George  III.  The 
preacher,  after  several  judicious  remarks  on  the 
virtues  of  the  royal  deceased,  concludes,  "  That  in 
the  extreme  to  -which  these  were  carried,  they 
appeared  like  vices ;  for  so  great  was  his  genero- 
sity, that  he  ruined  half  the  tradesmen  in  Lon- 
don ;  and  so  extraordinary  his  condescension,  that 
he  kept  all  sorts  of  bad  company." 

Divines  and  philosophers  have  had  strong  con- 
troversies concerning  motives.  Some  have  main- 
t^iined  that  the  ultimate  end  or  intention  was 
sufficient  to  condemn  oi*  justify  any  act.  Others 
have  employed  their  wisdom  to  prove  tliat  actions 
and  their  consequences  were  alone  to  be  con- 
sidered, without  reference  to  end  or  motive  ;  and, 
between  these  two  extremes,  the  common  sense 
of  mankind  has  generally  steered.  A  great  dis- 
jnite  on  this  subject  is  said  to  have  engaged  the 
learned  of  Alexandria,  about  the  accession  of  the 
emperor  Julian,  whom,  says  a  biographer,  "some 
of  his  subjects  named  the  Apostate,  and  some  the 
Philosopher."  The  controversy  occupied  not 
only  the  Christian  Platonists,  for  whose  numbers 
that  city  was  so  celebrated,  but  a;lso  the  remnants 
of  the  Pagan  wisdom,  then  shining  its  last  under 
favor  of  the  new  emperor.  Yet  neither  Chris- 
tiana nor  Pagans  could  entirely  agree  with  each 
other,  and  such  a  division  of  opinion  had  never 
been  heard,  even  in  Alexandria.  Things  were 
in  this  state,  says  the  sage  tradition,  when  there 
arrived  in  the  capital  of  Egypt  a  Persian,  whose 
fame  had  long  preceded  him.  lie  had  been  one 
of  the  last  of  the  Magi,  dwelling  at  the  base  of 
Caucasus,  till  the  Parthians  laid  watse  his  coim- 
try,  when  he  left  it,  and  travelled  over  the  world 
in  search  of  knowledge,  and,  in  both  east  and  west, 
tliey  called  him  Kosro  the  Wise.  Scarce  was 
the  distinguished  stranger  fairly  within  their 
gates,  when  the  chiefs  of  the  controversial  parties 
determined  to  hear  his  opinion  on  the  matter  in 
dispute  ;  and  a  deputation,  consisting  of  a  Chris-  I 
tian  bishoj),  a  Jewish  rabbi,  a  Platonist  teacher,  i 
and  a  priest  of  Isis,  waited  on  the  Persian  one  I 


morning,  when  he  sat  in  the  portico  of  a  long- 
deserted  temple,  which  some  forgotten  Egyptian 
had  built  to  Time,  the  instructor.    The  rabbi  and 
the  priest  were  strong  for  actions.     The  Platonist 
and  the  bishop  were  entirely  motive  men  ;  but  in 
the  manner  of  those  times,  for  even  philosophy 
has  its  fiishions,   the  four  had  agreed  that  each 
shoiild  projwse  a  question  to  Kosro,  as  his  own 
wisdom  dictated.     Accordingly,  after  some  pre- 
paratory compliments,  touching  the  extent  of  his 
fame  and  travels,  the  Platonist,  who  was  always 
notable  for  circumlocution,  op  en  the  business  by 
inquiring  what  he  considered  the  chief  movers  of 
mankind. 

"  Gain  and  vanity,"  replied  Kosro. 
"  Which  is  stronger?"  interposed  the  rabbi,  in 
Avhom  the  faculty  of  beating  about  in  argument 
was  scarce  less  developed. 

"  Gain  was  the  first,"  said  the  Persian.  "  Its 
worship  succeeded  the  reign  of  Ormuz,  which 
western  poets  call  the  golden  age,  and  I  know 
not  when  it  was ;  but,  in  later  ages,  vanity  has 
become  the  most  powerful,  for  everywhere  I 
have  seen  men  do  that  for  glory  which  they 
would  not  do  for  gain,  and  many  even  sacrifice 
gain  to  glory,  as  they  think  it." 

"  But,  wise  Kosro,"  demanded  the  priest,  im- 
patient with  what  he  considered  a  needless  di- 
gression, "  tell  us  your  opinion — Should  men  be 
judged  by  their  motives  or  their  actions?" 

"  Motives,"  said  Kosro,  "  are  the  province  of 
divine,  and  actions  that  of  human,  judgment. 
Nevertheless,  because  of  the  relation  between 
them,  it  is  well  to  take  note  of  the  former  when 
they  become  visible  in  our  light,  yet  not  to 
search  too  narrowly  after  them,  but  take  deeds 
for  their  value ;  seeing,  first,  that  the  inward 
labyrinth  is  beyond  our  exploring ;  secondly, 
that  most  men  act  from  mingled  motives ;  and, 
thirdly,  that  if,  after  the  thought  of  a  western 
poet,  there  were  a  crystal  pane  set  in  each  man's 
bosom,  it  would  mightily  change  the  estimation  of 
many." 

And    the    Christian    bishop   made   answer — 
"  Kosro,  thou  hast  seen  the  truth ;  man  must  at 
times  perceive,  but  God  alone  can  judge  of,  mo 
tives." 


TPIE    CONQUEST    OF    PERU. 


(SEE     PLATE.). 


The  Conquest  of  Peru,  by  Pizarro,  was  one  of 

the  most  powerfully  exciting  of  that  series  of 
acts  in  the  bloody  drama  which  illustrated  the 
discovery  of  the  New  World.  Balboa,  Cortes, 
Pizarro,  Desoto,  have  almost  a  spectral  grimness 
in  the  associations  of  history,  and  their  names 
stand  for  types  of  all  that  is  brilliant  in  enterprise, 
remorseless  in  character,  and  bloody  in  deeds. 
Pizarro,  to  whose  energy  the  conquest  of  Peru  and 
the  destruction  of  the  interesting  race  of  the  In- 
oas  is  due,  was  one  of  the  naturally  greatest  of  this 
succession  of  conquerors.  Of  low  origin,  illite- 
rate, and  beset  by  difficulties  requiring  the  force 
of  the  loftiest  genius  to  overcome,  he  rose  to  tlie 
highest  pinnacle  of  honor  and  wealth,  and  added 
to  his  na-tive  country  the  fame  and  fortune  of  one 
of  the  richest  of  her  American  States. 

Our  ph\te  introduces  to  us  the  first  and  most 
conspicuous  of  the  victims  of  his  lust  of  power 
and  wrath.  Ataliba — or,  as  his  name  is  usually 
spelled,  Atahualpa,  became  the  reigning  prince 
of  the  Incas  soon  after  the  advent  of  Pizarro. 

When  the  Spaniards  first  arrived  at  Peru  in  the 
year  1526,  Huana  Capec,  the  twelfth  Inca,  ruled 
the  country.  He  was  not  only  a  wise  ruler,  but 
was  of  a  warlike  disposition.  He  had  conquered 
the  province  of  Quito,  and  lived  in  the  capital  of 
that  country.  He  seems  to  have  liked  the  coun- 
try which  he  had  subdued  ;  for,  notwithstanding 
it  was  the  law  ofthe  empire,  that  the  Incas  should 
not  marry  any  but  their  own  relations,  who  were 
descended  from  the  same  ancestor,  lie  had  mar- 
ried tlie  daughter  of  the  Prince  of  Quito,  whom  he 
had  conquered. 

He  died  in  1529,  leaving  the  kingdom  of  Quito 
to  his  eon,  Atahualpa,  whose  mother  was  the 
princess  of  that  kingdom,  whom  he  had  married. 
He  left  the  rest  of  the  kingdom  to  his  eldest  son, 
Huascar,  whose  mother  was  one  of  the  royal 
race.  Though  the  people  respected  the  memory 
of  Huana  Capec  very  much,  yet  they  tliought  it 
so  wrong  for  him  to  have  married  any  one  but  a 
princess  of  the  Sun,  that  they  encouraged  the 
elder  brother,  Huascar,  to  try  to  take  away  from 
his  brother,  Atahualpa,  the  part  ofthe  kingdom 
which  his  father  had  left  him.  But  the  younger 
brother  had  at  his  command  a  large  army,  the 
most  valuable  soldiers  in  Peru;  and  with  this 


he  felt  so  strong,  that  he  refused  to  obey  the  or- 
ders to  give  up  his  power,  which  Huascar  sent 
him,  and  marched  with  his  army  to  attack  his 
brother. 

Thus  was  a  civil  war  begun,  in  Peru.  Atahu- 
alpa, having  the  best  army,  defeated  his  brother. 
He  tried  to  make  his  title  sure,  by  murdering  aP 
the  children  of  the  Sun,  the  descendants  of  Mango 
Capec,  whom  he  could  find.  He  had  taken  his  bro- 
ther Huascar,  prisoner ;  but  he  did  not  take  away 
his  life,  because  he  knew  that  many  of  the  people 
thought  he  was  the  rightful  king,  and  he  could 
make  Huascar  give  out  such  orders  as  he  pleased, 
which  the  people  would  obey.  Thus  did  tlie  quar- 
rels of  those  two  brothers  open  a  way  for  the  Span- 
iards to  overrun  and  subdue  the  whole  of  their  rich 
and  powerful  empire,  which  they  never  could  have 
done,  had  the  Peruvians  continued  united.  This 
war  was  going  on,  when  Pizarro  arrived  in  St, 
Matthew's  Bay.  If  he  had  reached  the  country 
a  few  years  earlier,  when  Huana  Capec,  their 
father,  had  been  at  the  head  ofthe  kingdom,  that 
prince  would  undoubtedly  have  been  able,  and 
would  have  been  wise  enough,  to  drive  the 
Spaniards  away. 

The  brothers,  however,  were  so  much  engaged 
in  their  wicked  quarrels,  that  they  did  not  mind 
the  arrival  of  the  Spaniards.  Pizarro  soon  found 
out  the  state  of  tlie  country,  and  resolved  to  take 
advantage  of  the  disturbed  state  in  which  he 
found  it.  The  brothers  even  invited  him  to  take 
part  in  tlieir  affairs.  Huascar,  who  was  a  pris- 
oner to  his  brother,  sent  to  Pizarro,  to  beg  him  to 
come  and  assist  him  to  escape  from  the  power  of 
Atahualpa,  and  recover  his  rightful  rule.  Pizarro 
thought  this  opportunity  was  too  good  to  be 
neglected.  He  marched  directly  forward,  without 
waiting  for  the  arrival  of  more  troops  from 
Panama.  He  was  obliged  to  leave  some  of  his 
people  at  St.  Michael,  to  take  care  of  the  new 
town,  so  that  his  army  was  very  small,  consisting 
of  only  sixty-two  horsemen  and  one  hundred  foot- 
soldiers.  Tiiey  advanced  toward  the  town  of 
Caxamalca,  which  was  twelve  days'  march  from 
St.  Michael.  Atahualpa  was  encamped  at  that 
place,  with  a  considerable  army.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  Peruvian  encampment,  they  were 
met  by  officers,  sent  out  by  Atahualpa,  bearing 


116 


THE    CONQUEST    OF   PERU, 


presents,  and  bringing  kind  messages  from  the 
Prince.  Pizarro  replied,  that  he  came  from  a 
powerful  Prince,  wlio  would  help  Atahualpa  to 
conquer  his  enemies. 

The  Inca  believed  this  report,  and  resolved  to 
receive  the  new  comers  kindly.  Pizarro  was 
therefore  allowed  to  enter  into  the  heart  of  the 
country,  witii  his  small  army.  The  road  passed 
through  such  narrow  and  difficult  places,  that,  if 
the  Peruvians  had  been  disposed,  tliey  might  have 
fallen  upon  the  Spaniards,  and  entirely  destroyed 
them.  They  advanced,  however,  undisturbed,  and 
took  possession  of  a  fort,  which  had  been  built 
to  protect  Caxamalca.  They  received  new  mes- 
sages of  friendship  from  the  Inca,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  fort.  At  Caxamalca,  Pizarro  took 
possession  of  a  large  court,  in  which  was  a  house 
belonging  to  the  Incas.  Here,  he  arrayed  his 
troops,  in  a  safe  order,  and,  having  done  tliis,  he 
sent  his  two  brothers  to  the  camp  of  Atahualpa. 
He  invited  tiie  Prince  to  visit  him,  in  his  quarters, 
that  they  might  talk  about  the  state  of  the 
country,  and  see  what  would  be  best  to  do,  to 
restore  it  to  peace. 

The  brotliers  were  treated  with  great  hospital- 
ity. Atahualpa  promised  to  visit  Pizarro,  the 
next  day.  Tiie  messengers  were  feasted  at  ta- 
bles, which  were  filled  with  gold  and  silver  ves- 
sels ;  and  the  great  abundance  of  gold  and  silver 
which  they  saw,  exceeded  anything  which  they 
had  ever  before  seen  or  heard  of. 

On  their  return  to  Caxamalca,  they  gave  to 
their  countrymen  such  an  account  of  the  wealth 
of  the  Peruvian  camp,  that  Pizarro,  notwith- 
standing his  professions  of  friendship,  resolved  to 
seize  the  monarch,  and  take  possession  of  his 
treasures.  He  remembered  how  Cortes  had  seiz- 
ed Montezuma,  and  he  thouglit  that  he  should 
much  more  easily  conquer  the  country,  if  the 
Prince  were  in  his  power.  The  conquerors  of 
that  time  seemed  to  liave  no  principle  of  justice 
or  honesty  ;  but  thought  they  were  right,  to  seize 
whatever  they  could  get,  and  to  break  the  most 
solemn  promises,  whenever  they  pleased. 

Pizarro  arranged  all  his  army,  in  the  most  ad- 
vantageous manner  to  do  what  he  was  so  wick- 
edly planning.  His  men  were  all  ordered  to 
keep  within  tlie  square,  and  not  to  move,  until 
they  received  his  orders. 

At  an  early  hour,  Atahualpa  began  to  prepare 
for  his  visit.  As  he  wished  to  make  the  most 
splendid  appearance  before  these  strangers,  the 
preparations  lasted  a  great  while,  and  the  day 
was  far  advanced,  before  he  was  ready  to  set 
out.  And  then,  that  everything  might  be  kept 
in  order,  he  made  the  procession  move  so  slowly, 
that  the  Spaniards,  impatient  for  the  booty,  were 


afraid  he  had  become  suspicious  of  them,  and 
had  concluded  not  to  make  the  proposed  visit. 
Their  own  guilty  hearts  probably  made  them 
think  of  this.  Pizarro  sent  more  messengei"s 
with  friendly  speeches,  to  hasten  the  unfortunate 
Inca  to  his  doom.  At  last,  he  came  near,  tie 
was  preceded  by  four  hundred  men,  all  dressed 
alike,  to  clear  the  way  before  him.  Tlien  came 
the  monarch,  sitting  on  a  sort  of  tlirono  or  couch, 
and  almost  entirely  covered  with  plates  of  gold 
and  silver,  which  were  adorned  with  precious 
stones.  He  was  also  decorated  with  many  col- 
ored plumes.  Thus  loaded  with  ornaments,  he 
was  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  his  principal  at- 
tendants. Behind  him,  were  several  of  his  no- 
bles, carried  in  the  same  manner.  Bands  of  sing- 
ers and  dancers  escorted  this  procession,  and  the 
whole  plain  was  covered  with  troops,  amounting 
to  more  than  thirty  thousand  men. 

As  the  Inca  came  near,  Valverde,  a  priest,  wlio 
was  the  chaplain  of  the  expedition,  came  out  to 
meet  him.  He  showed  him  a  crucifix,  and  tried 
to  tell  him  about  the  Christian  religion.  He  said, 
that  the  Spaniards  had  been  sent  by  their  master  , 
a  powerful  Prince,  to  turn  away  tlie  Peruvians 
from  the  worship  of  the  Sun,  to  tiiat  of  the  true 
God.  He  said,  that,  if  Atahualpa  would  give  up 
his  old,  and  believe  in  this  new,  religion,  the 
Spaniards  would  protect  him  ;  but  that,  if  he  re- 
fused to  do  so,  tliey  would  make  war  upon  him. 
Tins  speech  was  spoken  by  the  priest  to  an  in- 
terpreter, and  by  him  to  the  Inca.  The  interpre- 
ter did  not  understand  the  language  very  well, 
and  the  poor  Inca  could  hardly  tell  what  it  all 
meant. 

He  answered,  however,  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand the  speech  very  well,  but  he  did  not  see 
what  right  a  strange  priest  had  to  come  and 
talk  in  this  way  to  him  ;  that  he  should  not  leave 
the  worship  of  the  Sun,  in  which  he  Iiad  been 
brouglit  up.  He  asked  Yalverde,  where  he  had 
learnt  this  new  religion,  of  which  he  spoke.  Val- 
verde reached  to  him  the  book,  containing  the 
prayers  and  service  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  The  Inca  turned 
over  its  leaves,  with  wonder,  and  put  it  up  to  his 
ear.  He  then  said,  "  This  is  silent,  it  tells  me  no- 
thing ;"  and  threw  it,  with  scorn,  upon  the  ground. 
The  priest  was  shocked  at  this:  he  cried  out 
"To  arms.  Christians  ;  the  Word  of  God  is  insult- 
ed ;  you  must  avenge  this  profanation  on  the 
impious  dogs  "' 

At  the  sight  of  this  rich  and  shining  procession, 
the  men  were  so  eager  to  seize  upon  it,  that 
Pizarro  could  hardly  make  them  wait,  while  the 
priest  and  the  Inca  were  holding  this  conference. 
When  Pizarro  heard  the  exclamation  of  the  priest, 


THE    CJDNQUEST   OF   PERU, 


117 


he  gave  the  order  for  his  men  to  attack.  They 
rushed  at  once  upon  the  Peruvians,  who  were 
entirely  unprepared  fur  the  cruel  action.  The 
horsemen,  the  cannon,  and  the  whole  apparatus, 
were  so  different  from  what  they  had  ever  seen, 
and  the  attack  was  so  frudden,  that  they  fled  on 
every  side.  Pizarro,  at  the  head  of  a  chosen  band, 
rushed  forward,  to  seize  the  Inca.  The  men  who 
surrounded  their  Prince  tried  to  cover  him  with 
their  bodies,  yet  Pizarro  succeeded  in  reaching 
'his  throne,  seized  hiia  by  the  arm,  and  dragged 
him  to  the  ground,  and  then  carried  him,  a  pris- 
oner, to  his  own  quarters.  At  the  sight  of  this, 
the  men  fled,  with  still  greater  haste,  and  the 
Spani.irds  followed  them,  killing  great  numbers 
of  these  poor  creatures,  who  made  no  resistance. 
The  slaughter  did  not  cease  until  the  end  of  the 
day.  Four  thousand  Peruvians  were  killed,  and 
not  one  Spaniard.  Pizarro  had  a  wound  in  one  (jf 
his  hands,  which  he  received  when  he  was  trying 
to  seize  the  Inca. 

The  Spaniards  seized  the  gold  and  silver  of  the 
Peruvians.  The  quantity  of  these  metals  was 
greater  than  they  could  ever  have  imagined  to 
see  collected  at  once.  They  passed  the  night  in 
the  most  extravagant  joy. 

The  Inca  was  at  first  very  sori-owful,  at  the 
slaughter  of  his  troops,  the  loss  of  his  treasures, 
and  to  find  himself  a  prisoner.  Pizarro  thought 
he  could  carry  on  his  plans  better,  if  lie  kept 
possession  of  the  Prince,  and  he  would,  on  this 
account,  have  been  sorry  he  should  die.  He 
therefore  talked  kindly  to  him,  and  tried  to  en- 
courage him. 

Atahualpa  soon  saw  that  gold  was  what  the 
Spaniards  most  desired;  he  therefore  told  Pi- 
zarro, if  he  would  set  him  at  liberty,  he  would 
give  him  as  much  gold  and  silver  as  w^ould  cover 
the  room  where  he  was  confined,  to  be  piled  up 
as  high  as  he  could  reach.  This  room  was 
twentv-two  feet  Ions?  and  sixteen  broad.  Pizar- 
ro  promised  to  give  him  his  liberty,  if  he  would 
do  this,  and  the  line  was  drawn  at  the  proposed 
height. 

Atahualpa  M'aa  delighted  with  the  hope  of 
getting  his  liberty.  He  sent  messengers  to 
Cuzco,  Quito,  and  the  distant  parts  of  the  empire, 
to  gather  the  treasures,  which  had  been  heaped 
lip  to  adorn  the  temples  of  the  gods,  or  the 
palaces  of  the  Incju-i.  Although  he  was  a  pris- 
oner, the  Peruvians  did  everything  they  could, 
to  fulfill  his  ordei-s  Though  the  empire  was  still 
strong,  and  able  to  funiish  powerful  armies,  yet 
the  Peruvians  feared  to  make  any  resistance  to 
the  Spaniards,  lest,  by  so  doing,  they  should  put 
the  life  of  the  captive  Prince  in  danger.  The 
Spaniards,  therefore,  were  able  to  stay  at  Caxa- 


malca,  without  being  disturbed  at  all.  Pizarro 
sent  out  some  small  bodies  of  men,  into  different 
parts  of  the  country,  but  they  found  themselves 
everywhere  treated  with  great  respect. 

Almagro  arrived,  at  this  time,  at  St.  Michael, 
bringing   with  him  the  reinforcement  of  men, 
for  which  Pizarro  had  been  so  long  ho]ui)g.     If 
this  gave  joy  to  Pizarro,  it  gave  no  less  sorrow 
to  the  unhappy  Inca.     lie  saw  that  his  enemies 
were  growing  stronger ;  and,  as  he  did  not  know 
where  they  came  from,  he  could  not  tell   how 
many  more  he  might  expect.     His  trouble  was 
increased,  by  hearing  that  the  Spaniards,  on  their 
way  to  Cuzco,  liad  been  to  see  his  brother  Huas- 
car,  in  the  place  where  he  was  kept  coufiued. 
Huascar  had  told  them  his  story,  and  had  prom- 
ised them  if  they  w^ould  release  him  from  his 
prison,  and  restore  him  to  tlie  authority  which 
had  been  given  him  by  his  father,  he  would  give 
them  a  much  greater  quantity  of  gold  than  had 
been  promised  by  his  brother.     Atahualpa  heard 
of  this  proposal  of  his  brother;  and,  thinking 
that  if  the  Spaniards  took  his  part,  he   should 
not  be  so  likely  to  be  relieved  from  his  troubles, 
he  sent  and  ordered  Huascar  to  be  killed.     His 
orders  were  obeyed. 

The  Indians  brought  in,  every  day,   to  Caxa- 
malca,  immense  quantities  of  treasure.     Nearly 
the  whole  of  what  had  been  promised  was  col- 
lected, and  Atahualpa  told  Pizarro,  that  it  was 
only  because  it  took  so  long  to  bring  it  from  the 
distant  parts  of  the  empire,  that  it  had  not  all 
arrived.     But  the  soldiers  became  so  impatient, 
when  they  saw  such  immense  piles  of  gold,  that 
Pizarro  found  it  was  impossible  to  restrain  them. 
They  took  out  some  curious  articles,  as  presents 
to  the  Emperor,  and  then  the  whole  mass  was 
melted  down.     A  fifth  jtart  was  put  aside,  for 
the  Emperor,  and  a  certain  portion  for  the  sol- 
diers who  had  just  arrived  with  Almagro,  and 
there  then  remained  one  million  five  hundred 
and  twenty-eight  pesos  for  Pizarro  and  his  fol- 
lowei-3.     They  divided  the  treasure,  with  relig- 
ious ceremonies,  calling  upon  God  to  witness  the 
..ction.     By  this  division,  above  eight  thousand 
pesos,  which  are  said  to  have  been,  at  that  time, 
worth  not  less  than  thirty-five  thousand  and  five 
hundred  dollars,  fell  to  the  share  of  each  horse- 
man, and  half  that  sum   to    each    foot-soldier. 
Pizarro,  and  the  other  ofliicers,  had  shares  larger 
in  proportion  to  the  rank  they  held. 

Though  Pizarro  had  resolved  to  put  his  prisoner 
to  death,  he  did  not  dare  to  do  it,  without  some 
pretence  of  justice.  He  ordered  a  court,  of  which 
Almagro  and  himself,  with  two  assistants,  were 
judges.  He  kojit  up  all  the  forms  of  a  trial  in 
Spain,  and  had  all  the  regular  officers  appointed. 


118 


REV.    N.    S.    S.    BEMA.N,    D.D 


It  was  alleged  before  this  court,  that  Atahualpa 
had  deprived  his  brother  of  the  command  of  the 
empire,  and  had  put  him  to  death ;  that  he  was 
an  idolater,  and  had  ordered  men  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, in  worship ;  that  he  had  several  wives ; 
that  he  had  wasted  the  public  treasures,  which, 
since  the  country  was  conquered,  belonged  to  the 
Spaniards;  and  that  he  had  tried  to  stir  up  his 
subjects  to  fight  against  the  Spaniards.  Tlie  mock 
trial  ended,  by  pronouncing  Atahualpaguilty,  and 
condemning  him  to  be  burned  alive.     Atahualpa 


tried  to  escape  his  fate:  he  begged  that  he  might 
be  sent  to  Spain,  to  be  tried  by  a  king,  who 
would  have  some  pity  on  his  misfortunes.  But 
Pizarro  knew  no  pity.  He  hurried  the  unhappy 
monarch  to  his  execution.  Valverde,  the  priest, 
pretended  to  console  him.  He  told  him,  if  he 
would  become  a  Clmstian,  his  death  should  be 
made  a  less  cruel  one.  The  dread  of  being  burn- 
ed to  death  made  the  Prince  consent  to  be  bap- 
tized, and  he  was  strangled,  instead  of  being 
burned  alive. 


THE    REV.    N.  S.  S.   BEMAN,  D.D 


BY      HON.      GEORGE      B.      DATIS 


Dr,  Beman  was  called  to  the  pastoral  charge 
of  the  First  Presbyterian  Church,  of  the  city  of 
Troy,  some  twenty-eight  years  since,  and  has 
occupied  that  position  during  all  that  period,  and 
still  does,  with  distinguished  ability,  eminent 
success,  and  marked  usefulness.  He  is  a  graduate 
of  Middlebury  College,  and  left  that  institution 
with  the  highest  reputation  for  ripe  scholarship  ; 
and  very  few  men  in  this  country  possess,  in  so 
high  a  degree,  the  elements  to  entitle  them  to 
fill  so  broad  a  space  in  the  public  eye,  as  this 
distinguished  divine. 

Dr.  B.  is  no  ordinary  man  ;  he  possesses  one  of 
those  rare  and  commanding  intellects,  that 
scarcely  can  fail  of  marking  the  age  in  which 
they  live,  and  of  leaving  the  impress  of  their 
greatness  upon  it.  He  is  one  of  those  master 
spirits,  that  are  not  compelled  to  follow  the 
beaten  track  of  knowledge,  and  have  not  the 
firmness,  the  originality  of  thought,  and  courage, 
to  explore  any  new  and  trackless  course,  but  is 
one  who  has  the  energy,  the  independent  daring, 
and  the  intellectual  power  to  strike  out  a  way  of 
his  own,  if  he  believed  the  old  track  led  to  error 
of  opinion,  or  of  doctrine,  and  the  ability  to  vin- 
dicate and  maintain  tliat  way  against  a  world  of 
polemics  in  arms ;  but,  instead  of  seeking  en- 
larged fome,  and  "  the  bubble  reputation,"  by 
ambitious  aspirations  in  his  profession,  through 
the  agency  of  those  busy,  bustling  efforts  that 
characterize  many  minds,  of  altogether  smaller 
calibre,  he  has  contented  himself  to  remain  in  his 
present  quiet  position,  and  give  the  powers  of 
his  great  mind,  with  ^1  it  rich  and  varied  stores 


of  learning,  and  knowledge,  and  deep  reflection, 
to  his  church  and  people,  and  to  fill  a  space  quite 
too  contracted  for  his  own  fame  and  merits,  as  a 
profoundly  learned,  eloquent,  and  able  theo- 
logian. 

Dr.  B.'s  intellectual  greatness  is  highly  and 
fully  appreciated  by  those  who  well  know  him, 
but  not  to  the  broad  extent  he  so  richly  deserves ; 
and  for  no  other  reason  than  the  fact,  that  he  has 
not  been  ambitious  of  blazoning  it  abroad,  and 
keeping  himself  before  the  public  eye  as  a  newly 
discovered  "bright  particular  star,"  but  has  filled 
his  place  in  his  church,  and  confined  his  effort 
mostly  to  that  sphere.  He  has  not,  as  many 
minds  far  his  inferior  in  intellectual  strength 
have  done,  published  every  effort  of  their  minds, 
and  scattered  them  broadcast  through  the  land, 
to  woo  and  win  fjime  and  distinction,  if  not  by 
the  quaUty,  at  least  by  their  quantity.  It  is  rare 
he  consents  to  the  publication  of  the  production 
of  his  mind  ;  and  when  he  does,  you  may  be  sure 
he  will  not  be  ashamed  to  meet  it  anywhere  ;  and 
hence  a  knowledge  of  his  intellectual  greatness 
is  mostly  confined  to  the  restricted  circle  of  his 
hearers,  and  his  fame  necessarily  less  broad  and 
expansive  than  a  different  course  would  have 
given  it. 

Dr.  B.  possesses  a  mind  of  expansive  and  com- 
prehensive compass,  and  an  intellect  of  great  and 
commanding  power,  and  one  that  is  capable  of 
mastering  any  subject,  and  overcoming  all  oppos- 
ing obstacles,  and  reaching  the  truth  he  aims  at, 
against  all  the  subtilties  of  the  schoolmen  and 
sophists  that  lay  across  his  pathway  ;  he  finds  no 


REV.    If,    9.    S.    BEMAN,    D.D. 


119 


mists  and  darkness  to  obscure  his  progress  after 
truth,  that  he  caunot  jienetratc,  and  discover  ite 
light  amid  sorrounding  murkiness. 

He  is  a  man  of  great  energy  and  decision  of 
character,  equal  to  any  and  every  emergency, 
and  is  not  one  who  shrinks  from  danger  and  dif- 
ficulty, or  succumbs  to  popular  error,  for  the 
want  of  courage,  ability,  and  firmness  to  meet 
and  combat  it. 

As  a  theologian,  he  is  profoundly  learned — as 
a  writer,  clear,  perspicuous  and  strong — as  a  rea- 
soner,  powerful,  logical  and  resistless — as  an 
orator,  cool,  collected,  commanding  and  attrac- 
tive— his  language  is  always  the  best,  and  classic- 
ally pure,  and  admirably  adapted  to  convoy  the 
idea  he  wishes  to  impress  upon  his  hearers — he 
studies  no  ornament,  nor  has  he  any  occasion  to 
dress  up  his  efforts  with  dazzling  and  fanciful 
drapery,  to  hide  the  weakness  of  thought,  for 
thought,  deep  thought,  is  the  animating  soul  of 
all  his  mental  efforts  ;  and  he  moves  directly  for- 
ward, with  a  giant's  tread,  to  the  principle  or 
proposition  he  wishes  to  demonstrate,  with  a 
chain  of  logical  deduction  that  leads  captive  his 
hearers,  and  is  almost  certain  of  producing  the 
conviction  he  aims  at. 

"  The  judgment  and  the  passions  at  a  slroke 
Convinces  and  moves  ;  repels  with  -wondrous  force 
The  skeptic's  rebel  reason  ;  and  informs 
The  meanest  intellect  with  instant  light." 

His  manner  in  the  pulpit,  as  a  serraonizer,  is 
solemn,  impressive,  and  dignified. 

"  At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 
His  looks  adorn  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevails  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  come  to  sooIT,  remain  to  pray.-' 

Dr.  B.  has  long  held  the  Presidency  of  "  The 
Rensselaer  Insllhitf"  in  the  city  of  Troy,  an  insti- 
tute that  stands  high,  and  ranks  among  the  best 
schools  of  learning  in  the  country,  for  a  thorough 
practical  knowledge  in  the  useful  branches  of 
science.  It  is  due  to  its  President  to  say,  that 
his  distinguished  reputation  for  learning  has  con- 
tributed greatly  in  giving  it  character,  and  his 
active  and  energetic  exertions  in  making  it 
useful. 

Dr.  B.  annually  delivers  a  course  of  lectures  on 
literature,  ethics,  and  other  branches  of  science, 
for  which  he  will  not  receive  any  remuneration  ; 
all  he  desires  is  to  see  it  flourish,  and  is  amply, 
paid,  in  his  estimation,  in  a  consciousness  that  its 
advantages  are  felt  and  realized,  in  the  number 
of  well  educated  scholars  that  yearly  graduate, 
and  go  out  to  diffuse  the  light  of  knowledge  and 
the  blessings  of  a  sound  education  among  the 


people.  He  is  a  devoted  friend  and  patron  of 
education. 

He  once  a  year  avails  himself  of  the  occasion 
of  a  thanksgiving  sermon  to  unbend  himself  and 
level  the  "  dread  artillery"  of  his  mind  against 
what  he  deems  public  errors  and  prevailing 
vices,  and  flings  the  whole  power  of  his  gigantic 
intellect  into  a  discourse  ;  and  on  these  occasions 
his  house  is  sure  to  be  crowded,  expecting  a  rich 
treat,  and  he  docs  not  disappoint  expectation ; 
and  wo  betide  the  government,  its  oflicers,  its 
measures,  or  prevailing  vices ;  if  he  assails  them, 
they  are  sure  to  meet  no  mercy  at  liis  hands.  It 
is  then  that  he  feels  at  home  and  untrammelled, 
and  he  lets  his  genius  loose,  to  wanton  over  the 
acts,  policy,  and  measures  he  dislikes,  and  the 
vices  he  abhors  ;  then  it  is  that  the  keenness  of 
his  withering  sarcasms  is  felt,  and  his  stinging 
wit  strikes  to  the  quick.  He  enters  into  no  com- 
promises with  wrongs,  errors,  or  measures  he 
condemns,  but  assails  them  with  a  bold  and  fear- 
less severity,  and  a  biting  and  scorching  invec- 
tive, that  draws  blood  and  blisters  its  agents  and 
actors.  It  is  only  on  occasions  like  this  that  he 
feels  a  freedom  to  indulge  in  the  largest  liberty, 
and  to  cut  and  flog  his  victims  with  a  merciless- 
ness  that  makes  them  writhe  under  the  tcrtur- 
ings  of  his  inflictions. 

It  is  not  alone  as  a  theologian  that  he  is  dis- 
tinguished ;  his  active  and  vigorous  mind  has 
ranged  through  the  whole  circle  of  the  sciences. 
He  is  well  posted  up  in  all  the  measures  of  gov- 
ernment, its  domestic  as  well  as  its  foreign  policy, 
and  is  at  home  on  all  subjects.  Is  it  political  eco- 
nomy ?  He  is  not  a  stranger  to  its  principles.  Is 
it  law  ?  He  is  familiar  with  Blackstone.  Is  it 
medicine  or  surgery?  He  has  studied  its  best 
authors.  Is  it  philosophy  ?  He  is  at  home  in  its 
sublime  discoveries.  Is  it  a  question  of  national 
policy  ? 

"  Hear  him  debate  of  commonwealth  affairs, 
You  would  say,  it  had  been  all-in-all  his  study. 
Turn  him  to  any  cause  of  policy, 
The  gordian  knot  of  it  he  will  unloose. 
Familiar  as  his  garter." 

Transfer  him  from  the  pulpit  he  has  so  long 
adorned  and  dignified,  to  the  halls  of  the  nation- 
al legislature,  and  he  would  be  there  with  his 
armor  on,  and  fully  armed  for  the  conflict  with 
the  ablest  of  its  champions  and  statesmen,  and  ■ 
would  be  found  a  foeman  "  all  soldiership,"  not 
"  mere  prattle  without  practice." 

Dr.  B.  belongs  to  the  Dwight  and  Webster  class 
of  minds,  and,  like  those  great  men,  would  be 
found  a  fortrea^,  against  which  a  small  artillery 
would  aim  its  feeble  shots  in  vain,  nothing  short 


120 


REV.     N.     S.     S.     BEMAN,     D.  D. 


of  a  whole  park  of  heavy  ordnance  could  slir.ke 
its  walls  and  impregnable  defences.  Like  the 
latter  able  statesman,  he  requires  a  powerful  onset 
to  bring  him  out,  and  put  him  upon  his  highest 
mettle ;  then  the  giant  energies  of  his  mind  will 
be  developed,  and  his  great  power  exhibited  in 
all  its  strength  and  mastery,  and  his  herculean 
blows  felt  by  the  foeman  who  provoked  them. 

Di\  B.  is  emphatically  a  great  man,  and  an  or- 
nament to  the  church  of  which  he  is  "so  bright 
and  shining  a  light."  If  ambition  for  political 
distinction  hatl  been  "  his  ruling  passion,"  and 
he  had  launched  his  bark  upon  that  stormy  sea, 
he  could  not  have  failed,  bv  his  own  command- 
ing intellect  and  acquirements,  to  have  risen  to 
the  highest  honors  in  the  gift  of  his  countiy,  and 
"touched  the  highest  point"  his  ambition  had 
aimed  at,  and  been  "the  observed  of  all  ob- 
servers," and  that,  too,  without  the  aid  of  those 
petty  means  and  miserable  shifts,  that  some  little 
minds  resort  to,  "  to  be  the  thing  they  are  not." 
He  has  all  the  elements  to  win  success  and  secure 
distinction  in  that  career,  and  stand  up  a  giant 
figure  among  the  towering  great  men  of  the  na- 
tion, and  is  entitled  to  occupy  that  lofty  position  ; 
and  would  have  had  some  claim  to  the  distinc- 
tion that  has  been  so  unjustly  and  inappropriate- 
ly, if  not  impiously,  awarded  to  Mr.  Webster,  of 
"  the  godlike." 

Dr.  B.,  however,  preferred  an  office  less  honor- 
able in  the  world's  eye,  but  one  clustering  with 
brighter  and  richer  honors  in  another  and  better 
world,  and  sacrificed,  if  sacrifice  is  a  proper  term, 
"  the  empty  nothingness"  of  earth's  barren 
honors,  to  that  crown  of  glory  and  priceless  in- 
heritance reserved  for  those  who  "  fear  and  serve 
the  Lord,"  and  has  thus  far  fulfilled  his  high  and 
noble  destiny,  and  won  imperishable  renown  as 
the  champion  of  the  cross,  a  renown  that  earth  can- 
not give  or  take  away,  "that  is  incorruptible,  un- 
defiled,  and  fadeth  not  away,"  and  that  the  rust 
of  this  world  cannot  tarnish.  And  who  dare  say 
he  did  not  choose  wisely  ? 

In  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Presbyterians 
in  Philadelphia,  in  ISSY,  that  resulted  in  the  di- 
vision and  excision  of  a  large  number  of  churches 
and  sixty  thousand  communicants  from  the  as- 
sembly. Dr.  Beman  Avas  a  delegate  from  his 
church,  and  was  the  leading  champion  of  the 


New  School  in  that  body,  and  came  in  conflict 
with  the  ablest  of  the  old  school  leaders,  and  to 
him  was  assigned  the  post  of  honor,  as  well  as  of 
danger,  to  lead  the  onset — a  position  he  sustained 
with  distinguished  and  signally  pre-eminent 
ability,  as  has  been  awarded  him,  not  by  his  de- 
voted and  faithful  followers  alone,  but  by  some 
of  the  ablest  and  best  judges  in  this  country,  who 
were  present  at  this  war  of  ecclesiastical  giants, 
as  indifferent  spectators. 

A  distinguished  member  of  Congress  from  our 
State,  himself  a  good  judge  of  forensic  talent,  was 
present ;  and  in  giving  an  account  to  the  wi'iter 
of  that  great  conflict,  remarked,  "  that  he  had 
listened  to  the  greatest  orators  of  the  nation,  in 
the  Senate  and  House  —  to  Webster,  Clay, 
Wright,  and  a  host  of  others,  in  their  ablest 
efforts,  and  never  did  he  witness  an  eff"ort  that 
came  up  to  the  one  made  by  Dr.  Beman,  to  whom 
up  to  that  time  he  was  an  entire  stranger."  He 
pronounced  him  one  of  the  greatest  orators  it 
had  ever  been  his  lot  to  listen  to.  He  was 
pressed  hard,  said  he  to  the  writer,  but  he  came 
out  of  the  conflict,  though  not  successful  against 
organized  superior  numbers,  yet  most  triumph- 
antly victorious  in  the  power  and  weight  of  the 
argument. 

It  is  no  more  than  simple  justice  to  say,  that 
Dr.  Beman  stands  at  the  head  of  the  clergy  in 
the  city  of  Troy,  if  not  of  the  State  and  nation  ; 
and  although,  from  social  and  church'  partiality, 
some  might  dispute  this  position,  but  put  the 
question  to  the  unbiassed  suffrages  of  the  people 
of  his  home,  without  distinction  of  sect  or  party, 
and  the  verdict  would  vindicate  his  claim  to  that 
elevated  position,  by  a  majority  most  decisive. 

Dr.  B.  is  beloved  by  his  church  and  people, 
and  highly  respected  by  all  denominations  in 
the  city,  as  well  as  by  the  citizens  generally.  The 
city  is  justly  proud  of  possessing  such  a  master 
mind,  and  well  she  may  be. 

The  writer  of  this  imperfect  sketch  is  not  of 
Dr.  B.'s  church,  but  of  another  and  different 
ordef ;  and  therefore  he  can  speak  of  him  with- 
out sectarian  prejudice  or  social  partiality,  and  do 
him  that  justice  he  so  richly  merits,  without  a 
misguided  judgment,  or  under  influences  to  give 
an  improper  bias  to  his  opinion. 


dD  ling  tn  Jlit. 


SUNG  BY  MISS  CATHERINE  HAYES. 
7"f 


MUKIC  CY  G.   A.  OSBORNE. 


( 


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1    0       sin"-,        0  sing        to  me  a    -     gain,  With  plain  -  tijo 

2.  Friends   of   my    youth,    friends        past  and     gone.  Scones    of  bright 


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-«^-i — r^— 1— h-*n"^~~rnn~r~' °^ — rrr^i  i : i_i  .rz 

Tzi* — \ — i~»~rz — » — I — ay~l r  zrrjZTtrz — i^LZ 

_s?- r-,^'-i-#-r--tZzWzr:nnfiTi7^rd:z:*zzr- 

==fc:^^'-zzz  :zz^  — i=hz^     g_fc^^__^'^-  -»^*-tF 

I  III 


A   GREEN    OLD    AGE. 


Br       REV.       DR.       HA  WES,       HA5TF0RD 


There  are  two  events  before  ii?,  -wlncli  no  skill 
or  power  of  men  can  avoid.  They  are  old  age 
and  death.  All  of  us  are  advancing  towards 
them  by  a  steady  and  irresistible  progress.  By 
night  and  by  day,  we  are  traveling  on  throngh  the 
successive  stages  of  life  ;  nor  can  we  stop  a  single 
moment  on  the  road  that  is  conducting  us  and  all 
mankind  down  the  scale  of  years,  to  the  affecting 
termination  of  our  earthly  being  in  the  grave  and 

eternity. 

We  may  indeed  be  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  our 
days,  and  thus  be  snatched  away  from  the  infir- 
mities and  trials  of  declining  years;  but  if  life  is 
spared,  we  shall  all  very  soon  reach  the  period  of 
old  age;  and  when  arrived  at  tliat  period,  the 
next  step  brings  us  to  death  and  the  house  ap- 
pointed for  all  the  living. 

But  though  these  events  cannot  be  avoided, 
much  may  be  done  to  mitigate  or  remove  the 
evils  connected  with  them,  and  to  render  ourselves 
useful  and  happy  even  down  to  old  age  and 
death.  Plants  and  trees  are  necessarily  deprived 
of  their  fruitfulness  by  age,  and  are  left  to  decay, 
or  are  cut  down  as  useless  encumbrances  of  the 
ground.  The  same  is  true  of  animals.  They 
grow,  come  to  maturity,  decay,  and  die.  The 
same  also  is  true  of  multitudes  of  men,  who,  more 
resembling  vegetables  or  animals  than  rational 
beings,  live  only  for  the  present  moment;  and 
having  spent  their  little  hour  of  being  and  enjoy- 
ment in  this  passing  scene,  decay  like  the  leaves 
of  autumn,  and  fall,  soon  to  be  forgotten,  as  if 
they  had  never  been. 

But  it  need  not  be  so  with  us.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  bringing  forth  fruit  in  old  age.  There  are 
those  who  are  like  the  palm-tree,  that  is  always 
green — to  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  that  are  always 
flourishing  ;  they  are  said  to  be  planted  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord,  and,  as  a  consequence,  they 
flourish  in  the  courts  of  God.  Nature  may  decay, 
but  grace  thrives  still,  putting  forth  fresh  blos- 
soms and  bearing  fruits  even  amid  the  storms 
and  frosts  of  the  winter  of  life. 

The  beauty,  the  dignity,  and  the  happiness  of 
a  fruitful  old  age  should  make  the  attainment 
of  it  an  object  of  the  warmest  desire  and  the 
most  unwearied  exertion  to  every  living  man. 
There  is  not  a  more  interesting  object  on  earth 
than  an  old  disciple,  who  has  been  bringing 
forth  fruit  to  the  glory  of  his  Saviour  during  a 


Ion"  life,  and  who,  when  about  to  be  removed 
to  a  purer  and  brighter  clime,  is  still  seen  putting 
forth  fresh  blossoms  and  bearing  fruits  of  right- 
eousness. 

He  stands  forth  as  a  monument  of  the  loving- 
kindness  and  faithfulness  of  God— of  the  excel- 
lence and  worth  of  religion ;  reflecting  in  his  own 
bright  virtues  the  image  of  his  Redeemer,  giving 
evidence  in  his  life  to  all  around,  that  he  is  an 
heir  of  heaven,  and  guiding,  by  his  example,  hia 
fellow-travelers  in  the  way  to  the  paradise  above. 
His  hoary  head  is  a  crown  of  glory,  being  found 
in    the    way    of  righteousness.     As   he    draws 
nearer  the  world  of  light,  his  countenance  gathers 
brightness,  as  did  that  of  Moses  when  he  had 
been  conversing  with  God  on  the  Mount;  and 
though  his  earthly  comforts  may  be  torn  from 
him  by  the  rude  hand  of  time  or  the  rough  blasts 
of  adversity,  his  all-sufficient,  his  ever-abiding 
happiness  still  remains.     He  still  stands,  like  the 
glory  of  the  forest,  stript  indeed  of  his  summer 
foliage,  but  discovering  more   clearly   to  every 
observing  eye  his  solid  strength  and  substantial 
texture.     How  charming,  my   brethren,  to  see 
grace  thrive  when  nature  decays ;  the  mind  soar 
when  the  body  bows  ;  the  venerable  saint  waiting, 
like  good  old  Simeon,  for  his  departure  ;  or,  like 
Paul,  the  aged,  uttering,   with  tremulous   but 
affecting  accents,  the  language  of  holy  confidence 

"  I  mn  nov,'  ready  to  be  offered,  and  the  time 

of  my  departure  is  at  hand.  I  have  fought  a 
good  fight;  1  have  finished  my  course;  I  have 
kept  the  faith :  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for 
me  a  crown  of  righteousness,  which  the  Lord 
the  righteous  Judge,  shall  give  me  at  his  appear- 
ing." 0,  compared  with  such  a  sight,  how  does 
all  the  pride  of  greatness,  all  the  pojnp  and 
pageantry  of  earth,  sink  into  insignificance  and 
nothing  !  Bow  is  God  glorified;  how  is  religion 
honored;  how  are  the  faith  and  the  hopes  of 
surviving  Chriitians  strengthened  and  confirmed 
by  such  a  life,  by  such  a  death  of  an  aged  ser- 
vant of  Christ  1  How  consoling  must  be  the  re- 
flection of  such  an  one  on  the  past;  how  delight- 
ful his  meditations  on  the  present ;  how  cheering, 
how  glorious  his  anticipations  of  the  future! 
When  he  looks  back  and  remembers  the  way  on 
which  the  Lord  his  God  has  led  him,  how  many 
refre.-hing  recollections  will  be  called  to  mind ; 
ii  how  many  seasons  of  communion  with  God ;  how 


124 


THE    VANITY    OF    HUMAN    THINGS. 


many  tokens  of  his  loving-kiDclness  and  tender 
mercy ;  how  many  days  and  years  of  pious  ser" 
vice  performed  for  his  divine  Master  and  the 
happiness  of  his  fellow-men!  All  these  come 
home  as  a  reviving  cordial  to  his  spirit,  now  that 
he  is  retiring  from  the  field  of  action,  laden  with 
the  honors  of  victory,  and  about  to  receive  the 
plaudits  of  the  great  Lord  whom  he  has  served. 
God,  his  almighty  Saviour  and  friend,  comes  forth 
to  sustain  him  by  his  gracious  presence,  now 
when  heart  and  flesh  are  failing ;  and  while  he 
feels  underneath  him  the  everlasting  arms,  and 
daily  refreshes  his  spirit  at  those  living  fountains 
that  are  provided  for  pilgrims  in  this  dry  and 
thirsty  land,  the  prospects  that  open  before  him 
of  heavenly  blessedness  fill  him  with  joy  un- 
speakable and  full  of  glory — his  journey  almost 
ended ;  his  trials  almost  over  ;  heaven  just  at 
hand  ;  himself  ripe  for  glory,  and  about  to  take 
possession  of  the  promisedinheritance,  to  become 
a  pillar  in  the  temple  cf  God,  to  go  no  more  out 
for  ever.  He  dies ;  and  a  heavenly  light  cheers 
his  departing  moments.  His  friends  look  on,  as 
he  takes  his  upward  flight,  and  are  quickened 


and  comforted  by  the  remembrance  of  his  virtues; 
by  the  sight  of  his  triumphs,  by  the  assurance 
that  he  is  gone  to  be  eternally  present  with  the 
Lord. 

Such  is  the  dignity,  such  the  happiness  of  a 
green  old  age.  Having  borne  the  heat  and  bur- 
den of  the  day  as  faithful  servants  of  Christ,  they 
are  privileged  to  retire  from  the  field  of  action, 
bearing  the  honors  of  victory,  and  rejoicing  in 
hope  of  eternal  glory.  Death  has  to  them  lost 
its  sting,  and  the  grave  its  terrors.  They  are 
ripe  for  the  last  change,  and  are  ripe  for  heaven. 
As  they  come  to  the  evening  of  their  days,  laden 
with  the  fruits  of  righteousness,  God  comes  forth 
to  acknowledge  them  as  his  own ;  he  pours 
around  them  the  refreshings  of  his  presence  ;  gives 
them  foretastes  of  the  promised  rest,  now  so  near 
at  hand,  and  enables  them  to  sing,  as  they  enter 
the  dark  valley, — The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I 
shall  not  want ;  I  know  in  whom  I  have  believed ; 
I  am  in  a  strait  betwixt  two.  0  to  be  able  to 
meet  death  in  such  a  frame  ;  how  sustaining  to 
the  soul,  how  honorable  to  religion,  how  glorify- 
ing to  the  God  of  salvation ! 


THE   VANITY    OF    HUMAN    THINGS. 


Alas  !  that  earthly  cares  should  hide 
The  scattered  blessing  far  and  wide 

Which  God  himself  hath  given — 
That  man  o'er  man  should  hold  control, 
And  darken  round  each  longing  soul 

The  very  light  of  heaven  I 

What  the  vain  glitter  of  an  hour, 
The  masquerade  of  boniow'd  power, 

Or  all  that  wealth  may  claim  ? 
Can  mortal  bosom  ever  fill. 
Unmix'd  with  human  care  or  ill, 

With  the  eternal  flame  ? 

All  human  praise  may  o'er  me  pasa  ; 
But  as  the  night-wind  on  the  grass 

That  fades  upon  a  tomb, 
The  glare  of  beauteous  things  that  rise 
Beneath  the  span  of  summer  skies, 

Resolves  itself  in  gloom  ! 

When  earthly  vanities  have  pass"d, 
O  may  my  weary  soul  at  last 

Resolve  itself  in  God  ! 
Nor  fame  nor  praise  intrude  to  break 
A  ripple  on  the  tranquil  lake 

Of  life  in  that  abode, 

Where  roll  the  tides  of  human  praise,— 
The  sound  and  stir  of  passing  days, 
Unseen,  uafelt,  unknown- 


Unheard  amid  th'  eternal  hymn 
Where  rising  clouds  of  incense  dim 
The  everlasting  throne. 

[n  vain,  in  vain  my  longing  eye 
Doth  watch  all  day  the  summer  sky, 

Some  form  all  strarge  to  see  ; 
For  sights  and  scenes  eye  hath  not  seen. 
For  path  where  foot  hath  never  been, 

I'll  search  the  troubled  sea  ; 

Or  follow  in  the  tempest's  path, 
Or  follow  anything  that  hath 

Some  rage  in  its  career  ; 
Or  wait  me  till  the  sullen  tomb 
B;comes  at  last  the  very  womb 

Of  dreams  and  spectres  drear. 

Yet  through  the  shades  of  death  shall  liao 
Th'  eternal  lights  of  Paradise 

Upon  my  weary  gaze  ; 
And  scenes  which  pencil  never  traced, 
And  melody  which  never  graced 

The  pomp  of  human  ways  ; 

And  flowers  all  beautiful  will  grow, 
And  summer  winds  will  o'er  me  blow 

The  air  1  will  not  breathe  ; 
They'll  linger  near  me  when  I'm  dead, 
They'll  bind  upon  my  lowly  head 

The  unforbidden  wreath. 


TWO   STORIES    FOR    THE    FIRE-SIDE 


I  I  . — T  HE      WHITE       LAMB. 


BY       B  . 


S  T  O  D  D  A  R  D. 


"  Once  in  a  far  country,  for  -which  you  might 
search  all  the  geographies  of  the  world  in  vain- 
there  lived  a  poor  woman  who  had  a  little  daugh- 
ter named  Agnes.  Tliat  she  was  poor,  and  had 
a  child,  was  by  no  means  wonderful,  for  poor 
people  are  common  to  all  parts  of  the  earth  ;  and 
so,  for  the  matter  of  that  are  children  too,  for 
which  the  good  God  cannot  be  enough  thanked. — 

But  this  poor  woman  and  child  were  not  al- 
together like  the  thousands  who  surrounded  her, 
as  I  shall  show  you  in  the  course  of  my  little 
story.  For  the  mother  was  exceeding  goodly, 
and  the  child  was  exceeding  fair  ;  and  goodly  too, 
as  far  as  a  child  could  be.  Not  that  children  can- 
not be  as  good,  ay,  and  better  than  most  grown 
people,  but  in  that  country  fhey  were  very  bad 
and  ignorant. 

It  is  true  that  there  were  schools  and  aca- 
demies there,  and  great  colleges  time-honored 
and  world-renowned ;  but  somehow  or  other  the 
people  were  no  better,  but  on  the  contrary  rather 
worse  for  all  these  blessings.  Whether  they 
neglected  good,  or  good  neglected  them,  is  not 
for  us  to  inquire  now,  but  certain  it  is  that  the 
greater  part  of  them  grew  up  in  ignorance  and 
vice.  Now  they  need  not  have  grown  up  in  vice 
unless  they  had  preferred  it  to  virtue,  though  they 
could  hardly  have  escaped  a  life  of  ignorance. 
There  were  many  priests  there  to  teach  them  the 
folly  of  sin  in  this  world,  and  its  eternal  punish- 
ment in  the  next.  They  were  very  energetic  in 
picturing  the  misery  of  sinners ;  but  in  spite  of 
all  they  could  say  and  do,  they  preached  to  thin 
and  careless  congregations,  in  consequence  of 
which  many  of  their  salaries  were  unpaid  from 
one  year's  end  to  another. 

Most  of  the  men  spent  their  Sabbaths  in  bull- 
baiting  and  dog-fighting ;  most  of  the  women  in 
gadding  from  house  to  house  with  budgets  of 
scandal,  while  the  children  ran  off  to  the  woods 
to  snare  birds  and  gather  berries,  and  oftentimes 
to  fight  out  a  match  made  up  the  day  before. 
Black  eyes  were  by  no  means  uncommon,  with  a 
plenty  more  in  perspective  when  those  were 
healed. 

This  was  the  life  of  the  mass  of  people,  though 
I  am  happy  to  say  there  were  many  exceptions 


in  men,  women,  and  children,  who  went  to  the 
chapel,  as  all  good  Christians  should,  and  lived 
up  to  the  precepts  of  the  Good  Book,  as  all  good 
Christians  do  ;  among  whom  was  the  mother  and 
child  that  I  began  to  tell  you  about. 

And  not  only  did  the  good  woman  go  to  church 
on  the  Sabbath,  and  on  all  the  appointed  holidays 
and  feasts,  but  she  endeavored  to  make  her  life  a 
perpetual  sabbath  unto  the  Lord.  But  the  child- 
because  she  was  of  a  tender  age,  could  not  al- 
ways accompany  her ;  nor  understand  why  she 
must  always  clasp  her  hands,  and  kneel  down  in 
the  pew,  when  the  vicar  did  the  same  in  his  lit- 
tle pulpit.  But  she  was  a  good  child  for  all  that, 
as  the  story  will  show,  and  loved  her  mother 
with  an  exceeding  love. 

When  she  was  about  three  years  of  age,  her 
mother  died.  Her  deatli  however  was  by  no  means 
unexpected.  The  only  wonder  was  that  she  had 
lived  so  long,  she  was  so  thin  and  sickly.  Her  hus- 
band had  been  dead  a  little  over  a  year.  He 
left  her  nothing  but  his  child  and  poverty,  a 
common  legacy  among  the  poorer  sort  of  people 
in  that  country.  After  his  death,  she  toiled  late 
and  early  to  maintain  herself  and  babe.  Many  a 
dawn  she  rose  before  the  sun,  and  the  sun  arose 
there  very  early.  Many  a  night  she  saw  the 
moon  set,  and  it  sets  very  late  at  certain  seasons 
of  the  year ;  but  her  labors  were  never  done :  the 
labors  of  the  poor  never  are  until  Death  comes 
When  Death  came  to  her,  she  rested  from  her 
work,  and  her  work  followed  her. 

It  was  a  fine  day  in  spring  when  they  burled  her. 
The  fresh  green  earth  was  full  of  dew ;  the  soft 
blue  sky  without  a  cloud.  It  was  a  day  to  make 
one  certain  of  immortality.  Few  and  unconcerned 
were  those  wlio  bore  her  to  the  grave;  they 
would  rather  have  gone  to  a  merry-making; 
were  neighbors  and  nothing  more :  the  dead 
woman  left  no  friends,  or  relatives,  only  her 
child. 

When  they  reached  the  churchyard,  they  found 
the  old  sexton  beside  the  grave,  leaning  on  his 
spade,  ready  to  fill  it  again  at  the  shortest  notice. 
The  vicar  put  on  his  bands,  and  read  the  funeral 
service.  "  Dust  to  dust — ashes  to  ashes,  but  the 
spirit  to  God  who  gave  it."  The  coffin  was  low- 


126 


THE    WHITE    LAMB. 


ered  into  its  narrow  house  and  the  earth  thrown 
upon  it,  while  the  minister  of  Christ  exhorted  the 
people  around. 

Little  Agnes  being  left  to  herself  by  those 
who  had  charge  of  her,  strayed  down  the  winding 
paths,  and  was  soon  hidden  among  the  grave- 
stones, which  were  very  thick,  for  the  dead  of 
ages  were  buried  in  that  little  churchyard.  At 
first  she  wondered  why  she  had  been  brought 
there,  but  the  sky  was  so  blue  above  her,  and  the 
earth  so  beautitul  around,  that  she  soon  forgot  it. 
The  shadow  of  Death,  which  falls  heavily  on  the 
hearts  of  men,  passes  like  a  light  mist  over  the 
soul  of  a  child. 

Large  butterflies  with  crimson  and  gclden  wings 
were  flying  to  and  fro  in  the  air,  and  the  wild 
bee  pursued  its  honey-making  in  the  buttercups. 
She  sat  down  in  the  long  grass,  and  began  to 
weave  the  blue  violets,  as  she  had  seen  the  bas- 
ket maker  weave  his  rushes.  Not  a  month  be- 
fore, a  little  girl  of  her  own  age  was  laid  with 
many  tears  in  the  mound  at  her  feet ;  but  the 
dew  hung  there  as  brightly  as  in  the  deep  mea- 
dows and  the  sunshine  filled  the  place  like  the 
smile  of  God.  Nature  mourns  not  like  man  fur 
the  dead  whom  she  has  gathered  to  her  bosom 
in  peace. 

By  and  by  little  Agnes  began  to  grow  drowsy, 
and  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do  to  keep  awake, 
she  found  her  eyes  closing  and  her  head  nodding 
on  her  breast :  so  she  repeated  the  prayer  that 
her  good  mother  had  taught  her  to  say  before 
going  to  bed,  and  committed  herself  to  the  care 
of  her  Heavenly  Father,  and  in  a  moment  was 
fast  asleep,  and  walking  in  a  dream  wiih  the 
Angels. 

In  the  meantime  the  good  vicar,  having  finished 
his  exhortation,  and  the  people  having  departed, 
be^an  to  wonder  at  her  absence,  and  search  for 
her  down  the  path  which  he  remembered  to  have 
seen  her  take.  Looking  right  and  left  among  the 
grave-stones,  and  calling  "  Agnes,"  with  a  sweet 
low  voice,  he  came  to  the  spot  where  she  had 
fallen  asleep.  She  was  sleeping  still,  and  beside 
her  stood  a  little  lamb,  innocent  and  beautiful. 
Its  fleece  was  whiter  than  driven  snow,  and  glis- 
tened in  the  sunlight  like  gold.  There  was  a 
golden  collar  around  its  neck,  with  an  inscription 
in  an  unknown  tongue ;  and  its  eyes  were  exceed- 
ing tender  and  beautiful.  There  were  no  folds  in 
that  country,  and  how  it  could  have  come  there 
was  a  mystery  which  the  vicar  could  not  ex 
plain  ;  nor  could  the  child  when  she  awoke.  She 
only  remembered  to  have  seen  it  in  her  dream, 
following  a  Shepherd  in  the  pastures  of  Para- 
dise. 

As  the  vicar  stood  lost  in  amazement,  it  drew 


near  him,  and  looked  up  in  his  face  with  its  ten- 
der and  beautiful  eyes,  and  then  at  the  child,  and 
then  in  his  face  again,  as  much  as  to  say — Here 
is  a  poor  motherless  one;  she  has  no  friends  in 
the  wide  world ;  who  wiU  take  care  of  her,  if 
you  do  not  ?  Indeed  he  fancied  that  it  did  say 
so ;  and  that  a  voice  softer  than  silence  whisper- 
ed to  him  "  Feed  my  Lambs."  His  heart  was 
touched  with  pity,  and  he  lifted  her  up  in  hid 
arms  and  bore  her  to  the  vicarage. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  news  spread  tlu-ough 
the  neighboring  towns,  and  many  of  iheir  dwellers 
came  to  see  the  White  Lamb,  and  l!ie  young 
child,  who  grew  daily  more  beautiful  and  good. 
The  pious  seemed  to  grow  better  the  moment 
they  beheld  the  loving  pair  ;  and  the  wicked 
who  had  sat  for  years  under  the  droppings  of  the 
sanctuary,  or  mocked  at  the  goodness  of  Heaven 
afar  ofl',  grew  thoughtful  and  penitent,  and  were 
soon  numbered  among  the  people  of  God. 

The  lamb  and  child  were  seldom  separated. 
Little  Agnes  was  very  unhappy  when   parted 
from  it,  and  it  seemed  equally  unhappy  in  its 
turn  when  parted  from  her.  Sometimes  they  used 
to  sit  for  hours  together;  she   poring  over   the 
vicar's  antitpe    missal,  which  by  this  she  had 
learned  to  read,  and  the  lamb  at  her  feet,  looking 
up  in  her  face  with  its  tender  and  beautiful  eyes. 
Sometimes, in  the  warm  summer  days,  they  went 
off  together  to  the  woods  and  lanes  ;   sometimes 
to  the  meadows  where  the  daises  grew  in  tufted 
grass  ;  and  little  Ages  was  won  t  to  b  raid  them 
in  a  wreath  around  her  brow.   She  said  one  day, 
on  returning,  that  she  would  soon  wear  a  wreath 
of  stars.     As  regularly  as  the  Sabbath  came,  they 
went  to  the  chapel  together,  side  by   side.     The 
sexton  made  a  path  for  them,  as  they  vvalked  up 
the  broad  aisle  which  was  now   crowded  with 
earnest  and  devout  listeners.    Their  accustomed 
place  was  on  the  cushioned  seat  that  ran  around 
the  altar.     When  the  choir  sang  their  anthems, 
the  voice  of  the  child  was  heard  above  the  deep 
bass  singers,  and  the  full-toned  organ ;  yet  it  was 
softer  and  sweeter  than   that  of  a  dove.     When 
the  vicar  read  the  morning  and  evening  service, 
her  reponses  fell  on  the  hearts  of  all   like  dew, 
and  a  halo  seemed  to  encircle  her  as  she  listened 
to  the  words  of  life. 

The  ])eople  began  to  consider  it  a  miracle. 
Cock-fighting  and  bull-baiting  fell  into  disrepute  : 
drinking  and  gaming,  to  which  the  greater  part 
of  them  had  been  bred  from  childhood,  lost  all 
caste  as  amusements,  and  other  vices  declined  in 
proportion.  It  was  eviilent  that  a  great  change 
was  going  on  in  the  hearts  and  habits  of  all. 
Profane  oaths  and  light  jests,  which  even  the  gen- 
try condescended  to  indulge  in  (as  they  did  in  other 


'MY     PEACE    1    GIVE    UNTO     YOU. 


12'! 


things  better  left  to  tlieir  inferiors,)  were  banish- 
ed from  all  society,  even  that  of  traveling  tinkers, 
time  out  naind  a  coarse  set  of  fellows.  Feuds 
handed  down  from  father  to  son  were  dropped  at 
once,  and  old  enemies  met  with  kind  greetings, 
and  parted  friends.  Everybody  seemed  to  pros- 
per, and  nobody  was  the  woi-se  for  it.  Beggars 
began  to  lay  aside  their  tatters,  and  wear  good 
substantial  garments.  There  was  no  longer  any 
need  to  beg,  for  work  was  plentiful.  Cottage 
windows,  once  stufled  with  old  hats,  rejoiced  in 
the  possession  of  new  panes  of  glass  ;  and  new 
cottages  were  being  builded  everywhere,  and 
everybody  declared  it  was  the  work  of  the  White 
Lamb. 

Spring  melted  into  summer,  and  summer  was 
now  on  the  verge  of  autumn.  The  fields  were 
full  of  harvesters,  reaping  and  binding  up  yellow 
sheaves,  and  barns  were  open  all  day,  and  boys 
might  be  seen  within,  storing  up  fruit  for  the  win- 
ter. Every  day  added  some  new  grace  to  the 
child;  but  those  who  were  experienced  in  such 
matters,  mostly  mothers  who  had  lost  children, 
said  she  was  dying.  Her  bloom  was  too  unearth- 
ly ;  her  eye  too  spiritual  to  last.  She  was  no 
longer  able  to  run  to  the  woods  and  fields:  a 
walk  to  the  little  summer  house  at  the  end  of  the 
vicar's  garden,  only  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
door,  was  suflicient  to  make  her  very  weary.  Nor 
could  she  visit  the  chapel  unless  carried  thither, 


which  was  a  scource  of  great  grief  to  all  the  vil- 
lagers. 

Day  by  day  she  grew  more  lovely  and  feeble  ; 
and  the  lamb  grew  more  fund  of  her:  they  could 
not  for  a  moment  separate  them.  It  clung  to 
her  days,  as  she  sat  in  her  little  chair  leaning  on 
pillows ;  and  nights,  it  crept  to  her  feet  as  she  lay 
upon  her  couch  dreaming  of  the  angels.  Its  white 
fleece  seemed  to  gi-ow  more  wliite,  and  its  eyes 
more  tender  and  beautiful.  And  it  often  look- 
ed at  the  tiding  child,  and  at  the  far  blue  sky 
shining  through  the  lattice,  and  its  glance  seemed 
to  saj' — Heaven  is  waiting  for  this  little  slip  of 
earth,  and  it  must  soon  go. 


Autumn  came  at  last,  and  the  child  was  dying. 
It  was  morning,  and  she  lay  on  her  couch,  with 
half  the  village  around  her.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  sky,  and  her  arras  were  entwined 
about  the  lamb,  who  lay  with  its  head  in  her 
bosom.  The  vicar  knelt  down,  and  prayed.  He 
could  not  bear  to  lose  the  light  of  his  household, 
though  he  knew  that  the  Angels  were  waiting 
for  her  on  the  threshhold  of  Heaven.  When  ho 
arose  she  slept.  Ages  have  passed  since  then, 
and  she  still  sleeps  ;  and  will  till  the  Heavens 
and  the  Earth  have  passed  away. 

The  next  day  was  the  Sabbath,  and  they  bore 
her  to  the  little  churchyard  where  her  mother 
was  buried  in  the  spring.  Their  graves  were 
dug  side  by  side.  All  the  children  and  maidens, 
dressed  in  white,  followed  her  bier  ;  and  half  the 
mothers  in  the  village  wept  as  if  she  had  been 
their  own  child ;  and  the  lamb,  looking  whiter 
than  ever,  walked  in  their  midst :— But  when  the 
services  were  over,  and  tlie  cofiiu  lowered  into 
tlie  grave,  it  looked  once  at  the  far  blue  sky,  and 
then  turned  away,  and  walked  down  the  path 
which  little  Agnes  had  taken  at  her  mother's 
funeral.  No  one  dared  to  stop  it ;  but  all  watch- 
ed it  with  breathless  attention  until  it  disappear- 
ed among  the  grave-stone?.  Some  of  the  boldest 
then,  the  vicar  among  the  rest,  followed  to  where 
it  seemed  to  disappear,  but  could  find  no  further 
traces;  nobody  Wiis  ever  able  to  account  for  it, 
but  everybody  believed  it  to  have  been  a  mira- 
cle, manifested  for  their  salvation,  notwithstand- 
ing a  wise  philosopher  who  wrote  a  large  folio 
to  prove  that  it  never  existed  at  all  Its  mem- 
ory is  still  preserved  with  veneration  in  that 
country,  and  from  that  day  to  this,  the  people 
have  continued  goodly  and  pious.  And  so  ends 
the  story  of  the  "  White  Lamb." 

"  Aad  so,"  said  I,  "ends  the  story  of  the  night. 
Bess  is  already  asleep,  and  Ruth  and  Kate  begin 
to  yawn.  Uncle  Tim,  who  would  be  a  romancer 
if  he  could  see,  as  we  do,  the  effects  of  his  ro- 
mance i     But  I  won't  moralize.    Good  uight." 


MY   PEACE    I   GIVE    UNTO    YOU, 


BT    A.     R.     WOLFE, 


Transcendent  goodness  !    What  are  now  the  storms 
That  shake  this  fragile  tenement  of  life  ? 
What  the  conflicting  elements  of  strife, 

That  blend  the  raried  forms 

Of  disappointment,  sorrow,  and  distress,— 


Making  man's  earthly  home  a  wilderness  ? 

Rude  blasts,  ye  ne'er  disturb  the  tranquil  spirit. 

That  has,  when  troubles  rise,  such  words  to  bless, — 

Such  heavenly  peace  to  cheer  it. 


THE    CLAIMS    OF    SACKED    MUSIC. 


BT       RET.      EDWIN 


HATFIELD 


Music  has  no  human  father.  It  claims  to  have 
descended  from  the  skies.  Man  has  invented,  it 
is  true,  ways  and  means  of  rendering  music 
more  expressive.  To  Jubal,  the  sixth  in  descent 
from  Cain,  is  accorded,  by  the  inspired  record 
the  high  honor  of  liaving  been  "  the  father  of  all 
such  as  handle  the  harp  and  organ."  But  who 
was  the  father  of  song  ?  From  whose  prolific 
mind  proceeded  first  the  enchanting  ode  ? 

The  origin  of  music  is  coeval  with  the  human 
race.  It  is  to  be  found  in  the  very  elements  of 
the  human  soul.  Man  is  the  creature  of  thought 
and  feeling.  He  came  from  tlie  Creator's  hands 
with  a  heart  susceptible  of  an  almost  endless 
variety  of  emotions,  and  with  the  faculty  of  giv- 
ing expression  to  them,  so  that  each  emotion 
might  be  distinctly  known.  These  emotions  may 
be  perceived  by  the  eye,  in  the  diversified  aspect 
of  the  features  of  the  face,  or  in  the  position  and 
posture  of  the  whole  or  a  part  of  the  frame.  It 
is  the  ear,  however,  which  most  readily  perceives, 
in  the  accents  of  the  voice,  the  state  and  changes 
of  the  heart  within.  All  animals  to  whom  God 
has  given  the  system  of  respiration,  or  in  whom 
the  lungs  and  larnyx  are  found  fully  developed, 
are  possessed  of  the  faculty  of  voice.  By  various 
modifications  of  these  organs,  by  the  expansion  or 
contraction  of  the  lunrfR,  the  increasing  or  the 
diminishing  of  the  length  of  the  larynx,  or  wind- 
pipe, and  the  action  of  the  eplglot,  or  covering  of 
the  windpipe,  a  great  variety  of  tones  may  be 
produced.  These  tones,  by  constant  and  uniform 
association,  become  the  wellkeown  sigjis  of  a 
particular  emotion  or  feeling  of  the  heart.  Joy 
and  grief,  love  and  hate,  hope  and  fear,  peace  and 
rage,  contempt  and  pity,  all  have  their  peculiar 
tones — tones  as  universally  understood,  as  any 
thing  whatever  pertaining  to  man.  These  tones 
have  no  provincial  meaning:  tliey  are  nature's 
language,  common  to  man  in  every  clime  and 
age;  and  many  of  them  not  peculiar  to  him, 
but  serving  as  the  medium  of  thought  even  in  the 
brute  creation.  These  sounds  can  never  fall  upon 
the  ear  so  as  to  be  perceived,  witliout  exciting 
within  the  human  soul  the  idea  of  a  particular 
emotion. 

There  Is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds  , 
Some  choni,  in  unison  with  what  we  hear, 
Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies." 


These  varied  tones  of  nature  are  the  original 
elements  of  music.  A  combination  of  these  tones 
after  some  order,  more  or  less  prolonged,  is  the 
germ  of  music, — a  germ  that  existed  in  the  first 
thing  that  had  breath,  as  soon  as  it  began  to 
breathe. 

To  arrange  these  tones  in  an  orderly  manner, 
so  as  to  reduce  music  to  a  science,  must  have 
been  the  work  of  time.  And  yet  scarcely  any 
time  could  have  elapsed  after  the  creation,  before 
the  atmosphere  was  filled  with  the  sweetest 
music.  No  sooner  had  the  larh  sprung  forth  at 
its  Maker's  word,  than  it  soared  aloft,  and  poured 
its  sweetest  strains  upon  the  air.  Every  bird  be- 
came a  warbler,  ready-taught  to  join  the  choir  of 
nature — the  vesper  hymn,  at  the  first  going  down 
of  the  sun — the  first  vocal  symphony  in  the  an- 
them of  "  Creation."  Thus  ended  the  fifth  day 
of  the  Creator's  work.  And  when,  on  the  sixth, 
obedient  to  its  Lord,  the  dust  of  the  earth  as- 
sumed the  human  form,  and,  receiving  the  breath 
of  God,  became  a  living  soul,  the  first  accents  that 
fell  upon  the  human  ear  were  of  the  sweetest 
music,  and  the  first  promptings  of  man's  exulting 
bosom  must  have  been  to  join  the  universal  choir. 
As  he  gazed  on  the  paradise  that  spread  itself 
over  the  earth,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes  to  the 
firmanent  beheld  the  glories  of  the  azure  heavens, 
his  soul  must  have  kindled  with  adoring  love  and 
gratitude  to  God.  And  this  must  have  been  a 
feeling  too  sacred,  deep  and  overpowering,  for  the 
tame  and  spiritless  enunciation  of  mere  words. 
The  lofty  song,  in  all  its  grandeur  and  sublimity, 
can  alone  unburden  such  a  heart. 

Thus  the  first  human  pair,  before  the  close  of 
the  very  day  of  their  creation,  must  have  joined 
in  devout  and  joyous  ascriptions  of  praise  to  their 
bounteous  Lord.  The  first  music  of  the  human 
voice  must  have  been  a  holy  exercise.  Sacred 
song  is  as  ancient  as  the  creation.  It  holds  the 
precedence  over  every  other.  It  is  the  eldest 
born  of  all  the  daughters  of  music. 

But  man  was  not  the  first  to  cultivate  the  sa- 
cred art.  It  was  not  on  earth  alone  that  sweet 
voices  were  heard,  as  the  Creator  "  spake  and  it 
was  done."  "  The  morning-stars  sang  together, 
and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy."  "Why 
may  not  that  angelic  chorus  have  been  heard  in 


THE    CLAIMS    OF    SACRED    MUSIC. 


129 


Eden,  and  its  blissful  notes  prolonged  by  human  ^ 
tongues  ? 

"  In  heav'n  the  rapt'rous  song  began, 

And  sweet  seraphic  fire 
Through  all  the  shining  legions  ran, 

And  strung  and  tun'd  the  lyre  ; 
Swift  through  the  vast  expanse  it  flew, 

And  loud  the  echo  roU'd, 
The  theme,  the  song,  the  joy  was  new, 

'Twas  more  than  heav'n  could  hold." 

In  that  day,  when  even  the  Creator  himself 
walked  and  talked  with  his  earth-born  children, 
the  intercourse  of  the  angelic  race  with  the  holy 
inhabitants  of  Kden  may  have  been  vastly  more 
familiar  than  is  usually  conjectured.  Milton,  in 
his  immortal  poem,  has  taken  up  the  thought, 
and  presented  us  with  the  beautiful  idea  of  Adam 
and  Eve  catching  their  accents  of  praise  from 
angel-lips  and  harps.  Adam,  as  au  introduc- 
tion to  their  evening-worship,  thus  addresses 
his  beloved  spouse : 

"  How  often,  from  the  sleep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket,  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
Sole,  or  responsive  to  each  other's  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  1     Oft,  in  bands, 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk, 
With  heav'nly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds, 
In  full  harmonic  number  join'd,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  thoughts  to  heav'n  !' 

It  was  reserved,  doubtless,  for  a  later  period, 
to  introduce  much  of  what  is  now  regarded  as 
essential  to  music.  From  the  love  of  order,  which 
in  some  degree  is  natural  to  man,  would  proceed  a 
measured  division  of  time  in  the  enunciation  of 
each  note,  and  thus  rhythm  would  become  uni 
ted  with  melody.  Language,  too,  as  one  of  the 
modes  in  which  feeling  is  expressed,  woukl  soon 
be  connected  with  the  tone,  and,  uttered  in  a 
measured  division  of  time,  would  give  rise  to  the 
idea  of  harmony.  Then  followed,  perhaps,  the 
union  of  two  or  more  voices,  producing,  in  perfect 
accordance,  sounds  so  kindred  as  readily  to  flow 
together  and  gratify  the  ear.  In  process  of  time, 
new  combinations  of  sound  would  be  produced 
and  scientifically  arranged ;  harmony  would  be- 
come more  various,  extensive,  and  perfect ;  lan- 
guage more  rhythmical,  or  better  adapted  to  the 
purpose  of  song  ;  instruments  inventeil  to  aid  the 
voice  :  and  thus  music  would  become  more  and 
more  a  perfect  expression  of  the  soul. 

Let  me  advert  to  some  of  the  uses  of  sacred 
music.  Not  to  speak  of  its  effects  upon  the  health, 
which  are  most  beneficial,  and  upon  the  animal 
spirits,  which  are  of  the  the  happiest  kind,  I 
would  simply  refer  to  its  efliect  upon  the  heart. 
"Pure  and  simple  music,"  says  Plato,  "  is  the  sis- 
ter of  bodily  exercise;  as  exerci.=e  imparts  health 


to  the  body,  so  music  imparts  self-government  to 
the  soul."  Martin  Luther,  than  whom  none, 
scarcely,  have  been,  in  modern  days,  more  efHcient 
patrons  of  sacred  music,  says,  "The  youth  must 
always  be  accustomed  to  this  art ;  for  it  makes 
men  kind  and  virtuous."  Mr.  Woodbridge,  editor 
of  the  "  Annals  of  Education,"  relates,  that  "  the 
effect  of  introducing  music  mto  one  of  the  villages 
of  German  Switzerland,  upon  the  entire  moral 
character  of  the  people,  was  immediate  and 
striking.  They  relinquished  drinking,  riot,  and 
debauchery,  and  all  disreputable  amusements, 
to  join  in  musical  recreation.  And  villages  be- 
fore noted  for  nothing  but  ill,  became  distinguish- 
ed for  sobriety,  order,  and  purity." 

Music  has  ever  been  regarded  as  a  most  appro- 
priate vehicle  of  praise.  The  exercise  of  the  art, 
therefore,  is  adapted  to  awaken  that  feeling  of 
the  soul  with  which  it  is  so  intimately  associated 
in  the  pious  bosom.  The  association  of  certain 
feelings  with  their  peculiar  tones  is  so  intimate, 
that  we  can  scarcely  hear  the  latter,  without  hav- 
ing the  former  stirred  up.  The  plaintive  cry 
awakens  pity  and  compassion.  The  lover  of  the 
dance  can  seldom  hear  the  strains  of  the  viol, 
without  an  inclination  to  move  with  corresponding 
step.  The  veteran  soldier  hears  the  bugle-call. 
or  the  rolling  of  the  drum,  and  at  once  his  bosom 
beats  for  the  tented  field.  Who  has  not  heard  of 
the  wondrous  effects  of  the  Tyrolese  song  or 
Marseillaise  Hymn  ?  Who  has  not  felt  a  patriot's 
blood  grow  warm,  while  "Hail  Columbia  !"  was 
poured  forth  from  a  thousand  hearts  ?  So,  too, 
the  lovers  of  sacred  song  are  often  stirred  to  rap- 
ture, when  the  lofty  and  solemn  tones  of  the  no- 
ble organ,  or  the  full  burst  of  praise  from  the 
great  congregation,  fall  upon  their  ears.  Then, 
if  ever,  the  Christian  feels  that  he  can  pour  out 
all  his  soul  to  God. 

But  the  influence  of  sacred  music  in  Wie  family 
circle  is  no  less  delightful.  Who  can  help  but 
recognize  the  lineaments  of  peace  and  joy  in  that 
scene  so  graphically  drawn  by  the  Scottish 
bard  ? 

"  The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide  | 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  Ha'  Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride  : 
Of  strains,  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And  '  Let  us  worship  God."  he  says  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise, 
They  tone  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  ; 

Terhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise. 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  o'  the  name." 

How  is  the  soul  drawn  upward  by  such  a  pic- 
ture 1    How  much  more  when  we  take  our  seat 


130 


THE    CLAIMS    OF    SACRED    MUSIC. 


by  that  "ingle,"  and  not  only  hear  the  very 
strains  themselves,  but  mingle  our  voice  with 
that  ofthe  good  old  sire  and  his  bairns  !  Soul-stir- 
ring scene  !  Oft  may  its  power  be  experienced! 
We  have  seen  an  audience  carried,  as  it  were, 
upon  a  mighty  wave,  as  some  noble  anthem  has 
thundered  forth  the  grandeur  of  our  God,  or  whis- 
pered to  the  soul  the  melting  notes  of  Calvary. 
Yea,  when  that  favorite  of  Martin  Luther  and  of 
the  whole  church,  good  "  Old  Hundred,"  has  fall- 
en on  our  ears  from  the  lips  of  thousands  beneath 
the  sacred  dome,  and  we  ourselves  have  mingled 
in  the  song,  it  has  seemed,  indeed,  as  if 

"  Our  souls,  on  wings  sublime,    . 
Rose  from  the  vanities  of  time, 
And  drew  the  parting  veil  to  see 
The  glories  of  eternity." 

Sacr  d  music,  practised  by  the  Christian,  makes 
him  happier,  better.  V.' hen  performed  in  secret, 
it  dispels  the  gloom  of  depression,  quiets  the  sea 
of  turbulence,  and  prepares  the  soul  to  couie  into 
the  presence  of  its  Maker  with  a  livelier,  holier 
joy.  In  the  family  circle  it  checks  the  wildness 
of  the  young,  melts  away  the  barriers  of  passion, 
and  unites  the  kindred  group  in  heavenly  devo- 
tion. But  it  is  chiefly  in  the  great  congregation 
that  its  full  power  is  felt,  or  would  be  felt,  if  our 
congregations,  having  taken  time  and  pains  to 
learn  this  sacred  science,  would  pour  forth  their 
swelling  tides  of  harmony  in  the  song  of  praise. 
"  Methinks,"  said  Baxter,  "when  we  are  singing 
the  praises  of  God  in  great  assemblies,  with  joyful 
and  fervent  spirits,  I  have  the  liveliest  foretaste 
of  heaven  upon  earth  ;  and  I  could  almost  wish 
that  our  voices  were  loud  enough  to  reach  through 
all  the  world,  and  to  heaven  itself." 

Thus  the  practice  of  sacred  music  is  admirably 
fitted  to  prepare  the  soul  for  the  enjoyments  of 
the  world  of  glory.  When  John  was  favored 
with  a  glimpse  of  the  upper  sanctuary,  he  found 
them  all  engaged  in  chanting  that  noble  anthem, 
"Holi/!  holy!  holy!  Lord  God  Almighty!" 
and  thi-  is  no  sooner  ended,  than  they  take  up  the 
strain,  "Thou  art  worthy,  0  Lord!"  These 
chants  ended,  they  take  their  harps  and  sing  a 
new  song:  ''Thou  art  worthy,  for  thou  wast  slain .'" 
"  And  I  beheld,"  says  John,  "  and  I  heard  the 
voice  of  many  angels  round  about  the  throne,  and 
the  beasts  and  the  elders ;  and  the  number  of 
them  was  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand,  and 

tliousands  of  thousands,  saying  with  a  loud  voice, 


'  Worthy    is   the   Lamb!'    and    every    creature 
which  is  in  heaven,  and  on  the  earth,  and  under 
the  earth,  and  such  as  are  in  the  sea,  and  all  that 
are  in  them,  heard  I  saying,  '  Blessing,a7ul  honor, 
and  glory !'     After  this  I  beheld,  and  lo  !  a  great 
multitude,  which  no  man  could  number,  of  all 
nations,  and  kindreds  and  people,  and  tongues, 
stood  before  the  throne,  and  before  the  Lamb, 
and  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  '  Salvation  to  our 
God!'   whereupon    all   the   angels   swell   again 
the  mighty   chorus,  'Blessing,    and  glory,    and 
wisdom  !' "     And  yet  again  he  listens.     And  now 
the  martyr-host  appear.     "  And   they  sing  the 
song  of  Mose.«,  the  servant  of  God,  and  the  song 
of  the  Lamb ;  '  Great    and   marvellous  are  thy 
works,  Lord  God  Almighty !'  "     "  And  after  these 
things  I  heard,"  he  says,  "a  great  voice  of  much 
people  in  heaven,  saying, '-4//cZMia  .'      Salvation 
and  glory,  and  honor,  and  jjower !'     And  a  voice 
came  out  of  the  throne,  saying, '  Praise  our  God 
all  ye  his  servants  !  and  ye  that  fear  him,  both 
small  and  great!'"     After  this  expressive  solo 
follows  another  chorus — the  "  Halelujah    Cho- 
rus,"— "  the  voice  of  a  great  multitude,  and  as 
the  voice  of  many  waters,  and  as  the  voice  of 
mighty  thunderings,  saying,   ^  Alleluia,  for  the 
Lord  God  omnipotent  reigneth .''  " 

Thus,  anthem  after  anthem,  and  chorus  after 
chorus,  peals  from  the  upper  temple.  There  all 
is  praise,  and  none  are  silent. 

"  Seraphs,  with  elevated  strains, 

Circle  the  throne  around  ; 
And  move  and  charm  the  starry  plains, 

With  an  immortal  sound." 

With  them  we  hope  to  dwell — with  them  to 
praise.  And  how  can  we  consent  to  forego  even 
here  the  bliss  of  heaven  ?  Why  does  not  every 
blood-bought  soul  catch  something  of  that  inspir- 
ing theme  that  fills  all  heaven  with  joy  ?  why 
not  now  learn  and  exercise  that  holy  art  which 
fills  angelic  hosts  and  ransomed  saints  with  rap- 
ture ?  Has  he  the  soul  of  a  saint,  who  has  no 
sympathy  with  the  saints  in  bliss,  no  desire  to 
anticipate  their  joy  ?  I  wonder  not  that  the  de- 
votees of  Mammon  and  of  Mars,  of  Thespis  and 
of  Bacchus,  are  deaf  to  the  praises  and  dead  to 
the  allurements  of  sacred  song.     Yes, 

"Let  those  refuse  to  sing, 
Who  never  knew  our  God  ; 

But  fav'rites  of  the  heav'nly  King 
Should  speak  their  joys  abroad.' 


■'^^i ' 


K 

o 
z 

en 
O 

a 


GO 


'^^'W 


THE  THOUSAND  ISLANDS  OF  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE. 


BY       REV. 


H  E  A  D  L  E  Y  , 


(SEE     PLATE.) 


TuESE  beautiful  isles  extend  from  near  Lake 
Ontario  to  within  a  few  miles  of  Ogdensburg— tlie 
most  varied  and  romantic  scenery  lying  between 
Clayton  and  Alexandria  Bay ;  an  area  of  about 
twelve  miles  in  length  and  from  three  to  eight 
in  width. 

Their  size  varies  from  a  single  rock  shaded 
with  slirubbery  to  extensive  farms  and  forests. 
They  break  the  St.  Lawrence  into  many  channels, 
afifording  a  panorama  of  singular  picturesqueuess 
and  often  sublimity. 

On  Selkirk  Island,  Bill  Johnson,  the  hero  of  the 
Patriot  War,  and  the  hunted  outlaw  of  an  empire 
and  republic  for  years,  has  his  home  and  fortress 
— now  a  hale  old  man  of  seventy.  His  daughter 
Kate  lives  quietly  with  her  husband  at  Clayton. 
She  was  the  hero's  companion  and  friend  in  pri- 
son— and  sought  his  solitude  among  the  islands 
while  fleeing  from  pursuit,  to  convey  food  to  her 
lawless  and  fearless  father. 

K'ear  Wells  Island  he  and  his  band  of  disguised 
banditti  burned  the  Sir  Robert  Peel,  whose  colors 
he  has  yet  in  concealment. 

To  see  these  lions  and  have  pleasant  sails,  the 
tourist  will  stop  at  Clayton,  or  French  Creek  as 
it  was  formerly  called. 

But  the  best  views  and  finest  fishing  are  had 
at  Alexandria  Bay,  where  oarsmen  and  excellent 
skiffs  are  always  ready,  and  a  convenient  hotel 
stands  on  a  summit  of  rock,  washed  by  the  waters 
of  the  noble  river. 

It  was  to  accompany  friend.s,  and  see  more  of 
the  marvelously  beautiful  St.  Lawrence,  that  I 
came  to  its  shore  for  the  third  time  at  Alexan- 
dria Bay,  on  the  morning  of  the  9th.  Tlie  day 
before,  we  were  overtaken  by  a  storm  at  Plessis, 
six  miles  distant,  and  which  would  have  been  a 
solitary  rendezvous  for  the  night,  had  we  not 
made  the  acquaintance  of  J.  Clarke,  Esq.,  whose 
hospitality,  and  musical  family,  lent  wings  to  the 
hours  of  the  severest  storm  of  the  season. 

A  neat  church  stands  on  a  summit  of  naked 
rock,  which  has  a  most  singular  aspect,  and  a 
preacher  is  engaged  to  supply  the  pulpit.  At 
Alexandria  Bay  we  found  a  very  pleasant  and 
finished  edifice  erected  by  Dr.  Belhune  during 
the  past  year.  He  visited  the  Islands  about 
three  years  since,  and  becoming  interested  in  the 


people,  destitute  of  the  Gospel,  returned  home  to 
raise  the  means  for  building  a  sanctuary,  and 
sustaining  a  clergyman  there.  Tlie  effort  was 
successful,  and  now  a  neat  and  ample  structure, 
with  a  bell,  lifts  its  shining  spire  near  the  liffht- 
house  of  the  harbor — a  point  of  moral  radiation 
amid  a  scattered  multitude  of  peris^hiug  immor- 
tals. It  is  called  the  '■  Church  of  the  Thousand 
Islands."  The  faithful  minister  is  a  Mr.  Dubois, 
whose  parish  extends  several  miles  over  the  bo- 
som of  the  St.  Lawrence.  It  must  be  pleasing 
to  Dr.  Cethune  to  know  that  as  the  reward  of 
his  benevolent  activity,  every  Sunday  morning, 
from  the  tower  of  his  beautiful  stone  temple,  soon 
to  be  consecrated  to  Almighty  God,  there  rings 
out  upon  the  stillness  of  reposing  life,  and  echoes 
among  the  green  isles  of  this  noble  river,  the  in- 
vitation of  the  "  church-going  bell."  Then  from 
the  hill-sides  and  across  the  waters  come  the  pea- 
sant, the  man  of  business,  and  the  fisherman,  to 
hear  the  tidings  of  a  full  and  free  salvation.  And 
who  shall  estimate  the  widening  and  mighty  in- 
fluence for  good,  going  forth  from  so  obscure  a 
centre  of  missionary  effort,  on  the  boundary  line 
between  an  empire  and  a  republic,  controlling 
well  nigh  the  religious  resources  and  commerce 
of  the  world. 

As  the  clouds  vanished  from  the  sky,  and  along 
the  shore  were  heard  only  the  sobbings  of  the 
retiring  tempest,  we  entered  our  light  boats  for 
an  excursion  down  the  channel  of  the  river.  Du- 
clon  is  a  fine  oarsman,  and  for  my  barge  I  felt 
no  fear,  though  we  were  tossed  roughly  at  times 
over  the  waves.  Pointing  to  Wells  Island  on  our 
left,  he  remarked,  "  There  where  you  see  the  ru- 
ins of  a  house  and  those  old  poplars,  I  lived  till 
a  young  man.  There  was  no  clearing  in  sight, 
and  no  store  within  twent\'^  miles.  We  went  out 
to  the  nearest  village  once  a  year.  And  where 
you  notice  a  green  spot  on  the  side-hill,  are  bu- 
ried my  grandfather,  parents,  and  brother." 
While  he  was  discoursing  thus,  my  thoughts  were 
on  the  sad  problem  of  human  life.  At  tlie  same 
time,  from  the  hum  of  the  city  and  the  solitude 
of  a  forest-iiland,  souls  having  passed  the  brief 
history  of  their  probation,  disappear  and  are  for- 
gotten, to  think  and  feel  in  rapture  or  wo  for 
ever !    What  a  leveler  is  Death  I  and  what  equal- 


132 


PEACE,    BE    STILL. 


ity  will  succeed  the  wide  distinctions  here,  at  the 
Judgment !  I  was  beguiling  the  moment  with 
these  reflections,  when  Duclon  suggested  the  pro- 
priety of  striking  for  a  distant  island  as  a  resting 
place  for  gathering  our  little  party  and  taking  tea. 
Throwing  out  my  trolling  lines,  he  was  soon  up- 
on the  surface  where  recently  he  had  caught  33 
large  fish  in  an  hour.  Three  glittering  spoons 
were  in  the  wake  of  the  boat,  but  no  indications 
of  success.  Resuming  conversation  with  my  sen- 
sible guide,  I  asked  him  if  often  there  were  acci- 
dents in  these  waters.  "  Sometimes,"  he  answer- 
ed, "  but  there  need  not  be,  if  the  passengers 
would  regard  orders;  for  it  stands  to  reason,  that 
we  who  have  always  been  on  the  water,  should 
know  best  how  to  manage  the  fishing." — 

Here  I  was  interrupted  by  a  sudden  tension  of 
one  line,  and  then  another ;  until  nearly  a  dozen 
fine  fellows  were  at  my  feet ;  their  large  black 
eyes  staring  reproachfully  upon  their  captor. 

Landing  upon  a  deliglitful  but  nameless  island, 
we  awaited  the  arrival  of  Simpson's  boat,  bring- 
ing Mrs.  B and  Mrs.  H ,  with  each  a  pri- 
soner from  the  translucent  tide.  After  a  substan- 
tial pic-nic,  we  were  again  floating  among  the 
islands,  which  grew  more  verdant  as  the  sun  went 
down,  and  around  whose  beach  the  purple  waters 
laid  their  limpid  undulations. 

And  then  the  moon  arose  full  and  clear,  and 
threw  over  the  scene  her  sheen— silent,  magical, 
and  tranquillizing  as  a  pleasant  dream. 

There  were  occasionally  the  light  dip  of  distant 
oars,  and  echoes  from  the  mainland  ;  while  the 


red  eye  of  the   lighthouse,  blazing  upon  the  bo 
som  of  the  bay,  reminded  one  that  we  need  and 
are  under  the  gaze   of  a   Sleepless   Watcher  of 
time's  unresting  deep. 

But  now  -ne  reach  the  "Lake  of  the  Islands," 
formed  by  two  long  islands,  "Wells  and  La  Rue, 
their  extremities  so  nearly  touching,  that  the  en- 
trance and  egress  are  scarcely  broad  enough  for 
a  steamer  to  pass.  Yet  these  straits  separate 
English  from  American  soil ;  and  our  skiff's 
prow  was  in  her  Majesty's  domain,  while  the 
stern  was  under  the  protection  of  the  "  Stars  and 
Stripes."  The  lake  is  five  miles  in  length,  and 
studded  with  islands,  presenting  on  its  lonely  bo- 
som views  exceedingly  picturesque  and  roman- 
tic. This,  and  many  of  the  most  attractive  spots 
on  the  St.  Lawrence,  cannot  be  seen  from  the 
steamers,  which  keep  the  channel  of  the  river ; 
and  none  have  really  appreciated  the  beauty 
and  sublimity  here,  whose  observation  has  been 
confined  to  a  hurried  transit  over  the  path  of  travel. 

I  date  tliis  letter  from  "  Brainard's  Island," 
on  which  we  have  taken  a  late  breakfast.  It  lies 
oil  the  border  of  the  "  Fiddler's  Elbow,"  so  called, 
I  am  told,  from  the  shape  of  the  curve  described 
by  the  steamboats,  and  their  motion  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  1692  islands,  which  I  find  by  a  work  on 
Canada  to  be  the  number  counted  by  the  first 
voyagers,  several  years  ago.  How  Avere  these 
islands  formed,  is  the  unanswered  question.  How 
deep  the  scars  of  both  physical  and  moral  revolu- 
tions on  this  fallen  sphere  ! 


PEACE,    BE  STILL, 


B  T 


WOLFE. 


Thro'  stormy  night  and  dark,  ' 
I  saw  a  fragile  bark 
Glide  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 
Urged  by  a  noble  crew 
Of  loving  hearts  and  true. 
Who  still  kept  struggling  on  laboriously, 
While  armed  with  lightning's  scath. 
The  storm-cloud  fought  the  path, 
And  fierce  winds  heaped  their  wrath 
On  Galilee. 

Calmly  the  Master  slept. 

While  on  the  tempest  swept, 

And  onward  went  the  mustering  of  the  waves, 

A  wild  and  savage  horde. 

That  snuffed  their  prey,  and  roared. 

And  gathered  round  to  drag  them  to  their  graves. 

Why,  in  this  fearful  hour, 

When  death's  dark  minions  lower, 

Sleeps  that  Supernal  Power, 

That  speaks  and  saves  ? 


"Is  there  no  care  to  thee. 

Master  Divine,  that  we 

Should  perish  so  ingloriously  here  ?" — 

He  rose,  and  darkness  fled 

The  halo  round  his  head, 

And  hope  again  smiles  out  in  clouds  of  fear  : 

'•  Oh  trembling  ones  and  pale. 

Why  should  your  courage  fail  ; 

Why  doubt  and  terror  fill 

Your  faint  hearts  ?  "  Peace,  be  still 

The  Master's  near." 

"  Peace.''''    As  the  soothing  word, 

Each  haughty  billow  heard, 

Down  sank  he  to  the  bosom  of  the  deep  ; 

And  softly  lay  his  head 

Upon  his  easy  bed. 

As  never  from  repose  again  to  leap  : 

So,  on  its  mother's  breast, 

The  fretted  child  doth  rest. 

Close  hugs  its  Parent  nest. 

And  sobs  to  sleep. 


THE   FEAR  OF    DEATH. 


B  T      REV 


A.     D.     OEIDLEY. 


Among  the  thoughts  which  are  -wont  to  arise 
ill  the  mind  of  the  fick,  is  the  fear  of  death. 
This  fear  has  respect  to  the  pain  of  dying,  the 
sundering  of  domestic  and  social  ties,  the  giving 
up  of  all  earthly  joys,  pursuits^  and  hopes,  the 
darkness  and  corruption  of  the  grave,  and  the 
awful  revelations  of  the  judgment  and  eternity. 
Such  thoughts  will  force  themselves  into  the 
mind  of  the  sick  man,  and  often  disturb  his  peace. 
In  view  of  one  and  all  of  these  considerations, 
he  shrinks  back  from  death ;  he  dreads  to  look 
into  the  darkness  before  him,  and  either  tries  to 
banish  from  his  mind  all  thoughts  of  dying,  by 
the  contemplation  of  vain  and  frivolous  things, 
or  sinks  into  despair. 

"  The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 

That  age,  ache,  penury  and  imprisonment  can  lay  on  man. 

Is  paradise  to  what  we  fear  of  death." 

"  Light  is  sweet,  and  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  for 
the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun."  This  aversion  to 
death  is,  in  a  great  degree,  natural  to  man,  and 
cannot  wholly  be  expelled  even  from  the  breast 
of  the  devoutest  Christian.  And  yet,  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  many  persons  suffer  from 
imaginary  fears  on  this  subject :  they  are  all  their 
life-time  subject  to  a  self-imposed  bondage,  and 
in  the  hour  of  sickness  especially,  find  their  tran- 
quillity disturbed,  their  resolution  weakened,  and 
their  hopes  beclouded. 

It  is  a  settled  principle  among  physiologists, 
I  believe,  that  in  order  to  a  person's  experiencing 
pain,  those  nerves  which  ordinarily  convey  the 
sensation  of  touch  must  possess  their  natural 
sensibility.  When,  for  example,  a  limb  is  para- 
lyzed, and  thus  the  tenderness  of  these  nerves 
destroyed,  one  may  puncture  the  part  affected 
without  producing  any  pain.  Now,  it  is  the  na- 
ture of  disease  to  diminish  the  sensibility  of  the 
nervous  system,  so  that  when,  at  the  last,  death 
itself  intervenes,  the  pain  of  dissolution  is  com- 
paratively slight. 

Since  men  ordinarily  struggle  when  in  distress 
of  any  kind,  many  infer  that  death  is  necessarily 
painful,  because  most  persons  struggle  in  the  hour 
of  its  approach.  But  this  conclusion  is  not  sound, 
because  struggling  is  a  mere  muscular  action, 
and  often  takes  place  when  the  subject  is  totally 


unconscious  of  it.  Decapitate  an  animal,  and 
the  body  will  struggle  for  a  considerable  time 
though  the  head,  which  is  the  seat  of  conscious- 
ness, is  entirely  separated  from  it.  "  Very  com- 
monly convulsions  occur  in  cases  of  apoplexy, 
and  when  severe  injury  has  been  done  to  the 
brain,  long  after  consciousness  has  been  suspend- 
ed. "Within  a  certain  period  after  death,  those 
struggles  and  contortions  of  the  countenance 
which  are  associated  in  the  mind  with  the  most 
excruciating  pain,  can  be  excited  by  the  applica- 
tion of  galvanism."  We  have  the  testimony  of 
persons  recovered  at  the  eleventh  hour,  that 
while  their  friends  stood  about  them  pitying  their 
sufferings,  their  existence  was  a  mere  blank. 
Montaigne,  when  stunned  by  a  fall  from  his  horse, 
tore  open  his  clothes  and  exhibited  other  signs  of 
distress,  but  it  afterwards  appeared  that  he  was 
senseless  at  the  time,  and  knew  of  what  he  had 
experienced  and  done  only  as  informed  by  his 
friends. 

Many  suppose  death  to  be  intensely  distress- 
fid,  because  they  have  endured  extreme  pain 
without  dying,  and  infer  that  life  could  not  be 
entirely  destroyed  without  causing  them  to  suf- 
fer still  greater  pain.  But  like  causes  produce 
like  effects  only  in  the  same  circumstances. 
Hence,  if  disease  benumbs  the  nervous  sensibili- 
ty as  it  advances,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
its  progress  will  bring  increasing  pain.  Those 
who  die  from  fevers,  and  most  other  diseases, 
suffer  their  greatest  distress,  hours,  days,  and  even 
weeks,  before  the  event  of  dissolution.  "  Those 
who  faint  from  the  loss  of  a  little  blood,  or  on 
any  other  occasion,  have  already  experienced  all 
t!ie  pain  they  ever  would,  did  they  not  again  re- 
vive." Persons  who  have  been  recovered  after 
drowning  have  described  their  sensations  imme- 
diately before  tliey  became  unconscious,  as  but 
little  painful ;  and  yet,  had  they  never  been  re- 
stored, they  would  have  suffered  no  more.  Fon- 
tenelle,  the  poet,  in  allubion  to  his  increasing  in- 
firmities shortly  before  death,  wittily  remarked 
that  he  "  was  about  to  decamp,  and  had  sent  his 
heavy  baggage  on  before."  So,  in  sober  fact,  it 
often  is — the  most  distressing  part  of  dissolu- 
tion is  over  before  the  hour  of  death  comes.  The 
cases  in  which  dying  is  exceedingly  painful,  are 


134 


THE    FEAR      OF    DEATH. 


those  generally  in  -wbicli  life  is  taken  away  with-  j 
out  a  previous  destruction  of  the  nervous  sys- 
tem. But  in  a  great  majority  of  instances,  the 
pains  of  dissolution  are  overrated.  In  respect 
to  death  from  consumption,  an  elegant  writer  has 
remarked:  "Con?umptive  patients  are  some- 
times in  a  dying  state  for  several  days  ;  they  ap- 
pear at  such  times  to  suffer  little,  but  to  languish 
for  complete  dissolution;  nay,  I  have  known 
them  to  express  great  uneasiness  when  they  have 
been  recalled  from  the  commencement  of  insen- 
sibility, by  the  cries  of  their  friends,  or  the  ef- 
forts of  the  attendants  to  produce  pain.  In  ob- 
serving persons  in  this  situation,  I  have  always 
been  impressed  witli  an  idea  that  the  approach 
of  actual  death  produces  a  sensation  similar  to 
that  of  falling  asleep.  The  disturbance  of  res- 
piration is  the  only  apparent  source  of  weariness 
to  the  dying  ;  and  sensibility  seems  to  be  impair- 
ed in  exact  proportion  to  the  decrease  of  that 
function.  Besides,  both  the  impressions  of  pre- 
sent objects,  and  those  recalled  by  memory,  are 
influenced  by  the  extreme  debility  of  the  patient, 
•whose  wisli  is  for  absolute  rest.  I  could  never 
see  the  close  of  life,  under  these  circumstances, 
without  recalling  those  beautiful  lines  of  Spenser : 

'•Sleep  after  toil,  port  after  stormy  seas, 

^  Ease  after  war,  death  afterlife,  doth  greatly  please." 

'  And  what  is  commonly  true  of  this  disease,  is 
so,  likewise,  in  many  others.  "  If  I  had  strength 
enough  to  hold  a  pen,"  said  William  Hunter,  "  I 
would  write  how  easy  and  delightful  it  is  to  die." 
"If  this  be  dying,"  said  the  niece  of  John  New- 
ton, "it  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  die."  And  this  ex- 
cellent man  himself  tells  us  that  he  watched  his 
dying  wife  some  hours  with  a  candle  in  his  hand, 
and  when  he  was  sure  she  had  breathed  her  last, 
which  could  not  at  once  be  determined,  she  died 
so  imperceptibly,  he  knelt  down  and  thanked  the 
Lord  for  her  peaceful  dismission.  "  If  this  be 
dying,  it  is  the  easiest  thing  imaginable,"  said 
Lady  Glenorchy.  "  I  thought  that  dying  had 
been  more  difiicult,"  said  Louis  XIV.  Testi- 
mony of  this  kind  might  be  collected  sufficient 
to  cover  many  pages.  A  writer  in  the  Foreign 
Quarterly  Review  (Dec.  1849,)  gives  an  interest- 
ing account  of  the  death  of  the  son  of  Edmund 
Burke,  a  part  of  which  I  will  here  quote :  '-Hear- 
ing his  parents  sobbing  in  another  room,  at  tlie 
prospect  of  an  event  they  knew  to  be  inevitable, 
he  rose  from  his  bed,  joined  his  illustrious  father, 
and  endeavored  to  engage  him  in  a  cheerful  con- 
versation. Burke  continued  silent,  choked  with 
grief.  His  son  again  made  an  effort  to  console 
him.  "I  am  under  no  terror,"  he  said;  "I  feel 
myself  better  and  in  spirits,  and  yet  my  heart 


flutters,  I  know  not  why.  Pray  talk  to  me,  sir! 
talk  of  religion,  talk  of  morahty ;  talk,  if  you 
will,  of  indifferent  subjects."  Here  a  noise  at- 
tracted his  notice,  and  he  exclaimed,  "Does  it 
rain  ? — No,  it  is  the  rustling  of  the  wind  through 
the  trees."  The  whistling  of  the  wind,  and  the 
waving  of  the  trees,  brought  Milton's  majestic 
lines  to  his  mind,  and  he  repeated  tiiem  with  un- 
common grace  and  effect : 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 
Breathe  soft  or  loud  ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines  ; 
With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship,  wave  I 

A  second  time  he  took  up  the  sublime  and 
melodious  strain,  and,  accompanying  the  action 
to  the  word,  waved  his  own  hand  in  token  of 
worship,  and  sunk  into  the  arms  of  his  father — a 
corpse.  Not  a  sensation  told  him  that  in  an  in- 
stant he  would  stand  in  tlie  presence  of  tlie 
Creator  to  whom  his  body  was  bent  in  homage, 
and  whose  praises  still  resounded  from  his  lips. 
But  commonly  the  hand  of  death  is  felt  for  one 
brief  moment  before  the  work  is  done." 

From  considerations  and  facts  like  tlie  fore- 
going, there  is  plainly  no  foundation  for  the  popu- 
lar belief  that  the  extinction  of  life  is  uniformly 
painful ;  for,  except  in  cases  of  sudden  and  vio- 
lent death,  sensibility  lessens  as  disease  advances. 
Doubtless,  most  men  suffer  severer  pain  in  some 
of  the  various  sicknesses  to  which  they  are  sub- 
ject, and  in  some  surgical  operations,  than  they 
will  in  "  the  article  of  death." 

We  read  that  the  venerable  Thomas  Fuller, 
having  considered  the  various  ways  in  which  life 
is  destroyed,  came  to  this  short  and  decisive  con- 
clusion:— "None  please  me."  "But  away  with 
these  thoughts,"  the  good  man  adds,  "  the  mark 
must  not  choose  what  arrow  shall  be  shot  against 
it."  It  is  not  permitted  us  to  decide  by  what 
manner  of  death  we  will  die,  and  it  is  well  we 
are  not.  But  there  is  this  consolation,  that  as  a 
general  rule,  the  fear  of  dying  is  more  distressing 
than  the  reality. 

Moreover,  in  the  pains  and  weariness  of  our 
sickness,  Imd  in  our  forebodings  of  the  dying 
hour,  it  is  well  for  us  who  hope  in  Christ  to  re- 
member that  in  his  death  he  drank  of  a  far  bit- 
terer cup  than  we  can  expect  to  taste.  No  mode 
of  destroying  life  is  so  cruel  as  that  of  crucifix- 
ion. Those  who  die  in  other  ways  may  endure 
sharper  pains,  but  no  agonies  are  at  once  so  ter- 
rific and  so  long  as  those  of  the  cross.  The 
driving  of  spikes  through  the  hands  and  feet  was 
undoubtedly  more  painful,  but  to  tliis  must  be 
added  the  rankling  of  the  nails,  the  fever  which 
ensued,  and  an  intolerable  thirst,  and  then  the 
pain  caused  in  his  wounds  by  every  attempt  to 


THE    FEAR    OF    DEATH, 


135 


■writhe  under  his  sufferings,  and  all  this  prolonged  ] 
until  death  released  him  from  his  agonies.  His 
life  was  destroyed  by  violence,  in  the  vigor  of  his 
manhood  and  in  perfect  health,  with  his  nervous 
energies  unimpaired :  consequently,  it  was  a 
most  painful  death.  Let  us  be  thankful  that  it 
is  not  appointed  us  to  follow  liim  in  the  mode  of 
his  dying,  and  that  He  was  willing  to  submit  to 
such  sufferings  in  order  that  He  might  extract 
the  sting  from  death  in  our  behalf,  and  give  us 
victory  over  the  grave ! 

It  was  remarked  at  the  beginning  of  this  es- 
say, that  many  persons  fear  death  because  of  the 
loathsomeness  of  the  grave,  and  of  other  unplea- 
sant associations  connected  with  it.  For  example, 
some,  having  heard  of  instances  in  which  it  was 
supposed  other  persons  had  been  interred  before 
actual  death,  fear  lest  it  may  be  so  eventually 
with  them.     But  a  careful  investigation  of  this 
matter  has  convinced  men  of  science  that  such 
cases  are  exceedingly   rare.     There  are  certain 
well  known  signs  of  death  which  are  almost  in- 
dubitable, and  corpses  are  seldom  buried  until 
some  of  these  signs  have  been  developed.     Be- 
cause some  bodies,  on  being  exhumed,  have  been 
found  with  their  position  somewhat  changed,  it 
has  been  hastily  inferred  that  life  was  not  ex- 
tinct  when   they  were  buried.     But  it  is    well 
known  that  often,  in  the  natural  progress  of  de- 
composition, the  muscular  fibres  of  one  side  or 
portion  of  the  liody  relax  sooner  than  the  otliers, 
and  cause  the  body  to  be  drawn  slightly  out  of 
its  original  position.     Moreover,  such  changes  in 
the  position  of  a  corpse  are  often  chargeable  to 
the  mistakes  or  carelessness  of  pall-bearers  in 
carrying  the  coffin  or  in  depositing  it  in  the  tomb. 
No  one,  tlieu,  we  think,  should  harrass  his  mind 
with  apprehensions  on  this  point. 

Again,  many  persons  are  troubled  with  the 
thought  that  their  bodies  will  become  "  the  food 
of  worms."  They  might  be  troubled,  justly  per- 
haps, were  there  any  ground  for  such  apprehen- 
sions. But  tlie  most  eminent  physicians  tell  us 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  nature  of  the  human 
body  to  indicate  that  worms  prey  upon  the  buried 
corpse.  If  properly  interred,  it  decays,  and  lit- 
erally returns  to  the  dust  from  which  it  was 
taken.  In  confirmation  of  this,  it  is  well  known 
that  when  bodies  long  buried  are  afterwards  ex- 


humed, they  are  commonly  found  with  the  fea- 
tures perfect,  though  on  exposure  to  tlie  air  they 
crumble  in  pieces.  The  fact  that  we  read  in 
scripture:  ''Though  after  my  skin,  worms  destroy 
this  body"  <tc.,  (Job  19:  26,)  is  no  proof  that 
this  is  a  fact.  Job,  in  this  case,  merely  refers  in- 
cidentally to  a  notion  prevalent  in  his  day,  and 
does  not  assume  to  announce  a  physiological  truth 
on  the  authority  of  Divine  inspiration.  It  is  the 
same  as  if  lie  had  said:  Though,  as  men  com- 
monly suppose,  worms  infest  and  destroy  this 
body,  yet,  Ac.  The  same  superstition  is  referred 
to  in  the  familiar  line  of  the  poet : 

"  The  deep,  damp  vault,  the  mattock  and  the  worm." 

Since,  then,  the  notion  has  no  foundation  in 
fact,  let  us  banish  this  and  all  other  imaginary 
fears  from  our  minds.     To  die  is  a  solemn  and 
momentous  thing  enough,  without  its  being  in- 
vested with  unreal  terrors.     Especially,  if  we 
are  the  followers  of  Christ,   and  tlius  partakers 
of  the  benefits  of  his  sufferings,  what  reason  have 
we  for  fear?     If  deatli  were  more  dreadful  than 
we  know  it  to  be,  it  would  be  unchristian  in  us 
to  tremble  and  shrink  back  at  the  thought  of  its 
approach.     God  has  promised  that  He  will  never 
leave  or  forsake  his  children;  that  He  will  be 
their  refuge  and  strength,  a  very  present  help  in 
trouble;  that  He  will  strengthen  them  on  the 
bed  of  languishing;  that  He  will  be  their  guide 
even  unto   death ;    and   that    when   they   walk 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  He 
will  be  with  them,  and   his  rod  and  staff  shall 
comfort  them.  Has  God  forsaken  you,  dear  read- 
ei',  in  the  trials  you  liave  been  called  to  encoun- 
ter in  days  past  ?     Does  he  not  support  you  now  ? 
You  cannot  be  so  thankless  as  to  say  nay.    Then 
why  distrust  Him  for  the  future  ?     Do  not  grieve 
Ilim  by  your  ingratitude,  and  by  your  distrust  of 
his  faithfulness.     Cast   away   your    doubts  and 
fears.     Entrust  yourself,  soul  and  body,  and  all 
your  interests,  in  his  good  hands,  for  tlie  present 
and  for  the  future,  and  be  happy  in  Him.     And 
whenever  death  comes,  it  will  be  less  painful 
than  you  have  feared,  and  in  addition  to  this, you 
will  find  the  Saviour  by  the  side  of  your  dying 
pillow,  and  He  will  accompany  you  in  every 
step  of  your  way  through  tlie  Dark  Valley. 


THE    FEAST    OF    THE    LORD. 


BY     CAROLINA       CHE5EBR0. 


One  of  the  wildest  of  imaginable  storms  was 
raving  over  the  Atlantic.  For  days  the  clouds 
had  been  gathering  darkness  until  not  a  speck  of 
blue  sky  was  to  be  seen,  either  to  the  east  or  to 
the  west,  in  the  north  or  in  the  south ;  and  at 
last,  the  tempest  burst  over  the  great  waters,  and 
on  a  home-bound  ship. 

The  seamen,  and  the  captain  of  the  vessel,  and 
more  than  all,  the  passengers,  had  watched  the 
clouds  with  increasing  nervous  anxiety,  and  the 
latter  in  an  undisguised  and  real  terror,  when  the 
wind  rose  so  furiously,  with  fierce  prophesyings 
of  hurricane. 

The  ship  was  crowded  with  passengers :  only 
a  few  on  board  were  emigrants,  and  they  were  of 
the  better  class — the  great  majority  were  pil- 
grims to  the  shrine  of  a  new  world,  or  returning 
pleasure-seekers,  who  Jiad  been  wandering  'mid 
the  glories  of  the  old.  There  were  men  and  wo- 
men, and  children,  a  motley  group  of  tlicra: 
beautiful,  young,  dreaming  girls,  eager  and  am- 
bitious youths,  gray-haired  priests,  politicians, 
merchants,  lawyers,  doctors,  and  a  poet;— French, 
and  German,  and  English,  and  American  people; 
an  essentially  mixed  company. 

It  was  curious  to  observe  that  company  while 
the  ship  went  smoothly  and  quietly  on  her  way — 
more  curious  still,  to  watch  them  while  the  awful 
storm  was  rising ;  but  dreadful  indeed  to  behold 
them  when  that  storm  had  burst.  There  had 
been  a  degree  of  acting  amid  the  multitude,  al- 
most equal  to  that.whioh  would  have  been  re- 
quired of  them,  had  they  really  been  performing 
on  a  stage  in  a  theatric  entertainment :  there 
was  no  more  of  this  seen  when  real  danger  pre- 
sented itself.  They  formed,  those  passengers,  in 
that  crisis,  a  startling  picture  for  the  world's  view  . 
but  there  were  none  but  God  and  the  angels  near 
to  look  upon  the  scene ;  all  the  rest  who  knew  of 
it  were  features  of  it. 

It  was  no  time,  when  the  ship  rocked  to  and 
fro  there  in  its  helplessness,  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  ocean — it  was  no  time  for  mortal  vanity  to 
show  itself,  and  vanity  had  vanished.  It  was  no 
place  for  pride,  there  beyond  all  human  help, 
when  the  spirit  of  God  was  moving  upon  the 
waters,  and  prido  was  not — yes,  pride  wastliere; 
for  some,  upheld  by  no  Christian    faith,  would 


not  tremble  when  the  voice  of  the  Lord  went 
echoing  over  the  deep.  It  was  a  place  of  prayer  ; 
but  alas !  u<hat  prayers  !  Utterances  of  mortal 
agony,  and  anguish  of  fear,  and  despair  that  went 
out ;  mere  utterances,  mere  ravings,  from  hearts 
which  knew  not  God,  from  hearts  which  found 
him  not !  It  was  a  place  also  for  humble  and 
confiding  hope,  and  that  was  not  wanting;  a 
place  for  Christian  courage,  it  was  there ;  a  place 
for  sacrifice  and  offering,  and  sacrifice  and  offer- 
ing were  ready. 

The  third  day  of  the  storm  had  been  one  of  tor- 
turing suspense  ;  all  conversation  ceased  among 
the  people.  They  sate  the  most  of  them,  and  for 
tlie  most  part  of  the  time,  pale  and  trembling, 
thinking  every  crash  of  wind  against  the  vessel 
to  be  the  signal  of  instant  doom.  But  very  few 
of  them  had  spoken  of  their  j^i'obable  destiny  ;  it 
seemed  a  thought  that  utterance  would  fill  with 
fresh  horror,  and  so  they  watched.  On  the  eve- 
ning of  that  day,  the  captain,  who  had  lield  little 
converse  with  his  passengers  since  the  opening 
of  the  storm,  came  into  the  cabin.  Three  hundred 
people  were  gathered  there,  in  such  an  agony  of 
terror  as  may  God  save  you  from  ever  knowing. 
His  presence,  as  soon  as  it  was  known,  produced 
the  most  solemn  silence  among  tlie  multitude  ; — 
had  it  not,  his  voice,  which  was  faint  and  trem 
bling,  could  scarcely  have  been  heard.  "  It's  my 
opinion,"  he  said,  "and  the  opinion  of  my  men, 
that  if  the  storm  continues  an  hour  longer,  we 
sliall  be  in  eternity  before  the  time  is  up.  The 
ship  has  held  out  remarkably  well.  I  have  never 
been  out  in  such  a  storm  before.  God  have  mercy 
on  you !" 

He  closed  the  door  after  him  as  he  went  out, 
and  immediately,  ere  the  silence  which  followed 
that  terrible  confirmation  of  their  fears  could  be 
broken,  another  voice  was  heard  speaking,  and 
an  old  man  was  seen  to  rise  from  a  far  corner  of 
the  cabin,  where  he  had  quietly  remained  nearly 
all  the  day. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  ' '  it  has  been  the  busi- 
ness of  my  life  to  preach  the  gospel  of  Jesus 
Clirist.  I  have,  many  times  before  this,  invited 
those  who  love  our  Lord  to  the  supper  of  his 
body  and  his  blood.  I  invite  you  to-night.  Whos- 
scever  loill,   let  him  freely  come.      Passengers 


THE    FEAST   OF   THE   LORD. 


137 


bound  towards  Eternity  !  we  will  tliis  nigbt  par- 
take—oh, let  it  be  with  godly  fear  and  with  child- 
like faith— the  bread  and  the  wine,  to  the  refresh- 
ment of  our  souls  1  We  will  consecrate  ourselves 
anew.  Let  us  bow  down  before  the  high  God, 
believing  that,  inasmuch,  as  we  confess  him  here, 
he  will  not  be  ashamed  of  us  when  we  appear 
before  him  at  the  judgment."' 

Tlie  table  was  at  once  spread,  and  the  bread 
and  wine  were  blessed  ;  then  the  speaker's  voice 
broke  yet  more  strongly,  and  clearly,  in  that  si- 
lence which,  since  his  solemn  proposition  was 
made,  had  been  marred  by  no  cry,  or  groan  of 
fear,  and  be  read  that  sublime  and  thrilling  hymn, 
beginning  will), — 

"Lo,  God  is  here  !"' 

Then  he  said,  "  Come  near,  all  ye  who  believe 
that  the  Lord  Jesus  died  for  you.  Come  !  all  who 
are  longing  for  his  everlasting  salvation  1  Come  ! 
in  meekness,  in  reverence,  and  in  faith,  and  so  ye 
may  be  sure  that  ye  will  not  eat  and  drink  to 
everlasting  damnation  !" 

That  was  a  House  of  God  then— it  was  con- 
secrated by  the  holy  name  which  the  Apostle  of 
holiness  had  called  upon — it  was  consecrated  by 
the  Divine  jiresencc,  for  God  teas  there.     There 
was  a  general  movement  toobey  that  call.  Souls 
which  had  been  tossed  for  years  on  the  ocean  of 
doubt,  which,  but  for  this  providence,  had  been 
lost  upon  the  shoals  of  unbelief,  had  grace  to  say, 
then,  in   all   sincerity;    "I   believe;  Lord   help 
mine  unbelief."     Careless  sons  and  daughters  of 
the  world  were  effectually  awakened  ;  and  the  scof- 
fers scoffed  no  more.     There  were  few  who  held 
themselves  aloof  from  that    celebration  of  the 
Last  Supper,  but  few  who  could  resist  the  call 
that  had  been  made,  as  they  verily  believed,  for 
the  last  time.    It  was  their  satanic  pride,  their 
unaccountable  pride,  that  held  them  back.   Tiiey 
wire  not  willing,  even  in  a  last  and  dire  extrem- 
ity, to  confess  Christ  before  7nen!     They  would 
not  be  converted  in  the  eleventh  hour  ;  they  had 
resisted  unto  death,  striving  against  God  !     But 
they  did  not  at  least  doubt  then.    They  knew 
what  they  had  never  known  before.    They  knew 
that  the  voice  of  God  was  in  that  tempest,  and 
the  voice  had  a  terrific  message  for  them.     Tliey 
knew  that  the  hand  of  God  was  lifted  to  destroy 
them ;  and  with   a    brutal   courage,  a   blasphe- 
mous daring,  they  exclaimed, 

'•  strike  I  thou  art  strongest." 

When  all,  who  would,  had  partaken,  the  preach- 
er's voice  (which  was  distinctly  audible,  because 
his  listeners  and  he  were  so  in  earnest  in  that 
hour)  exclaimed  "That  there  are  many  here,  who 
have,  to-night,  partaken  for  the  first  time  of  these 


sacred  emblems,  I  cannot  doubt.    God  bless  you, 
friends,  who  have  now  entered  into  covenant  with 
him.     If  we  are  saved  in  this  dread  journey  over 
the  waters,  you  will  have  occasion  to  rejoice  al- 
ways over  the  vow  you  have  this  niglit  made.    I 
believe  that  if  you  have  cried   unto  him,  who  is 
abundantly  able   and    willing  to  save,  that  he 
has,  in  this  sacrament,  anointed  you  with  the  oil 
of  his  salvation.     Tiie  time  allotted  to  us  in  this 
world  is,  doubtless,  just  drawing  to  its  close  ;  we 
cannot  but   believe  it,  who  listen  to  that  voice 
without,  wlio  feel  the  tossing  of  this  frail  bark. 
Beloved    friends,   don't    therefore   tremble,    and 
turn  pale  ;  our  Father  is  near;   He   is  here  ;  we 
have  only  to  taste  one  other   drop  of  that   cup 
whicli  our  Saviour  drank  to  the  dregs,  and  he  will 
accept  us  ?     Let  us  kneel  down  here,  and  await 
tlie  summons  which  shall   lead  us  hence.     Let 
our  prayers  precede  us  ;  in  such  silence  as  befits 
us  let  us  wait.     Let  our  thoughts  tend  not  earth- 
ward now.      We   are   all,  doubtless,  bound  by 
many  tender  ties  to  life.     Let   us  commend  our 
btdoved  ones  to  his  fatherly  protection,  who  loves 
tliem  better  tiian  we  know  how  to  love.     Lord 
Jesus,  we  bow  before  thee." 


More  than  an  hour  passed  on,  and  still  that 
congregation  waited  on  their  knees  in  silent 
prayer,  waited  for  the  summons  of  their  Maker. 
Only  an  occasional  sob,  bursting  from  some  heart 
to  whom  the  things  of  earth  were  yet  inestima- 
bly precious,  or  a  groan  from  an  unfortunate,  who 
had  not  yet  made  peace  with  God,  disturbed  the 
solemn  silence.  Tliere  were  no  cries  of  fear, 
for  fear  was  awed  before  the  majesty  of 
fiiith.  But  while  they  knelt  there,  the  wind  had 
assumed  a  softer  tone,  it  raved  not  so  savagely 
around  the  vessel.  It  seemed  also  to  have 
caught  the  spirit  of  reverence,  and  the  ship  began 
to  rock  less  terribly :  but  not  one  mortal  there 
dared  to  gather  hope  from  this — all  felt  that  there 
was  but  a  resting  pause  in  the  storm,  that  with  its 
next  burst,  a  grave  and  an  eternity  would  be 
opened  for  them. 

The  door  of  the  cabin  opened,  and  again  the 
captain  stood  before  the  people  who  had  entrust- 
ed themselves  to  his  guidance  over  the  great 
deep:  but  he  could  at  first  find  no  words  where- 
with to  communicate  the  tidings  he  brought;  he 
stood  amazed,  awestruck,  before  the  silent  kneel- 
in"  company.  In  a  moment  \\e  conquered  liiu 
emotion,  and  exclaimed  with  a  strong,  glad  voice 

"  Your  prayers  have  saved  us  !  angels  have 
been  with  me  !  the  wind  has  gone  down,  the  sun 
is  rising.  It  is  a  time  for  thanksgiving,  glory  to 
God!" 

Eyes  that  had  not  wept  iu  all  those  days  and 


138 


LET  US  LOVE  EACH  OTHER. 


nights  of  terror,  filled  to  overflowiDg  then — 
thoughts  of  kindred  and  of  home,  which  the  souls 
that  leaned  most  trustingly  on  God  had  put  far 
from  them  -when  they  imagined  the  death-doom 
near,  came  rushing  back,  filling  the  heart  with  a 
weight  of  thankfulness  and  joy,  hard  to  bear  in 
calmness.  The  multitude  luid  grown  quiet  and 
subdued,  while  the  shadow  of  tiie  eternal  land 
fell  down  so  closely  over  them  ;  but  they  were 
not  calm  and  quiet  when  the  Pilot  guided  them 
away  from  that  land,  out  from  that  shadow :  oh 
the  thought  of  safety,  of  Life  !  it  was  more  com- 
pletely overpowering  than  that  of  death  had 
been  ! 

And  a  stranger  eflfect  than  the  mere  falling  of 
tears,  than  the  almost  maniac  expressions  of  joy 
to  which  some  gave  utterance,  was  produced  by 
this  "  great  salvation  !  for  in  the  morning  of  de- 
liverance, when  the  sunlight  streamed  through 
the  cabin  windows,  it  beheld  a  still  greater  mul- 
titude sharinga  holy  sacrament,  in  remembrance 
of  Him  who  had  proved  so  mighty  to  save,  and 
young  children  were  brought  to  the  aged  preacher, 
by  parents  who  would  thus  early  dedicate  them  to 
God,  and  some  whose  brows  the  "  wing  of  time  had 
shaded,"  also  then  and  there  assumed  the  cross. 

They  are  scattered  now,  those  voyagers,  over 
the  wide  earth  ;  but,  must  they  not  bear  with 
them  a  memory,  which  will  work  always  in  them  ; 
and  in  others,  through  them,  work  mightily,  for 
good  ?  They  who  on  that  night  assumed  tiie 
cross  of  faith,  must  they  not  bear  it  with  tiiem, 


wheresoever  they  may  go  ?  And  in  bearing  it 
worthily,  they  must  and  will  proclaim  themselves 
the  missionaries  of  the  high  and  holy,  of  the 
meek  and  lowly  One.  Otherwise  they  have  par- 
taken of  that  body,  and  that  blood,  and  assumed 
that  sacred  symbol  in  an  extremity  of  weakness 
and  unworthiness,  which  shall  increase  their  con- 
demnation? 

That  Feast  of  the  Lord  upon  the  Waters  was 
a  feast  of  extremest  sorrow  and  extremest  need. 
So  was  it  at  its  institution  on  the  night  of  Be- 
trayal. The  sorrow  and  the  need  are  indeed  as 
abiding  features  of  it,  as  its  awful  significance. 

It  is  essentially  the  Supper  of  sorrow  :  but 
joy  is  borne  of  it  into  the  starving  soul.  It  niay 
be  taken  in  heart-tears,  but  its  effect,  its  impres- 
sion, its  reality,  is  Peace.  Do  you  not  know  it 
already  ?  The  dead  have  learned  it,  when  in  their 
last  moments  they  prayed  for  the  angel  to  delay 
only  till  they  could  obey  the  sacrament  call 
"  Come  unto  me ;" — the  proudest  have  learned  it 
when  they  have  been  subdued  to  pray ;  the  most 
worldly-minded  have  proved  it,  when  they  have 
paused  to  think.  We  must  all  learn  it — and  it 
will  be  well,  if  we  do  not  have  the  lesson,  to  cop 
it  as  the  Thief  upon  the  cross  learned  it,  when 
the  sacrament  was  presented  before  him  in  its 
most  awful  form,  when  he  partook  it  in  the  most 
dire  extremity,  compelled  to  confess  after  all 
his  waywardness  and  sin,  compelled  to  turn  to  the 
cross  for  guidance,  ere  he  could  go  onward  to  the 
supper  of  the  Lamb. 


LET   US   LOVE    EACH   OTHER. 


oh !  why  so  oft  does  anger  bum  within  the  human  breaf.t  ? 
Why  are  the  gentle  and  the  weak  by  violence  opprest  ? 
"Why  are  our  hearts  so  envious  of  good  that  others  win  ? 
"Why  are  we  prone  to  follow  still  the  ways  that  lead  to  sin  ? 
"Why  are  our  hopes  so  frivolous,  so  selfish,  and  so  vain. 
As  if  we  thought  tipon  this  earth  for  ever  to  remain  ? 

The  heart  that  yields  to  an^sr  wars  against  the  God  above, 
And  him  by  whom  the  weak  are  orush'd  thoir  Guardian 

will  reprove  ; 
The  envious  heart  doth  nurse  the  worm  that  gnaws  within 

the  breast, 
The  follower  of  evil  things  shall  find  no  place  of  rest  ] 


And  he  whose  hopes  are  bent  on  earth,  from  earth  will 

soon  beiLven, 
And  find  that  he  has  forfeited  a  bright  abode  in  heaven  ! 

Oh  !  let  us  love  each  other  then,  for  ws  have  hated  long  ! 
Let  ns  forego  the  frowning  brow,  the  insult,  and  the 

wrong  i 
Encourage  btiU  the  wav'ring,  talce  the  feeble  by  the  hand. 
While  wanderers  through  tlie  desert  to  the  blessed  promised 

land  ; 
And  our  God,  who  is  a  God  of  love,  will  guide  us  in  the 

way, 
And  in  time  of  death  or  peril,  prove  our  all-sufficient  stay. 


HORSEBACK  RAMBLES  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  VIRGINIA. 


BY    ELEANOR    J 


Would  you  like  to  take  a  ride  this  glorious 
summer  evening,  my  dear  Annie,  when  the  sun 
is  flooding  everything  with  his  fullest  tide  of 
beauty,  and  nature  is  in  the  very  hey-day  of  her 
loveliness?  Come  then,  I  will  take  you  on  my 
steed,  ns  your  spirit-presence  will  be  no  addition- 
al weight,  and  as  I  myself  ride  lightly,  we  will 
have  such  a  canter !  Could  anything  be  more 
delicious  than  this  gentle  motion  ? — and  then  we 
have  nothing  to  interrupt  our  view,  but,  with 
veil  thrown  back  and  cap  slightly  raised,  how 
delightfully  these  mountain  breezes  sweep  over 
our  brows  I  I  take  for  granted,  you  see,  that 
your  spirit  has  all  bodily  belongings. 

Do  look  at  that  forest  before  us,  draping  so 
luxuriantly  yon  sloping  hill-side — you  see  there 
is  between  us  and  it  that  blue  mist  like  the  bloom 
on  grapes,  which  so  few  artists  successfully  trans- 
fer to  their  canvass ;  how  it  darkens  and  enriches 
the  noble  forms  of  those  beeches,  chestnuts,  pines, 
and  oaks,  which  are  beautiful  enough  already 
with  their  broad  boughs,  many-formed  foliage, 
and  deep  shades.  And  how  it  fades  as  we  di'aw 
nearer  the  base  of  the  hill,  like  many  another 
sweet,  airy  illusion,  for,  aa  Coleridge  somewhere 
says, 

"  The  beautiful  vanishes  and  returneth  not." 

Ah — 'here  we  come  to  the  clear  brook  with  its 
shaded  banks  and  gravelly  bed,  where  "  Gyp " 
always  shows  his  good  nature  by  wanting  a  drink 
in  the  shadiest  spot ; — but  there  is  no  drink  for 
you  this  time,  my  good  "Gyp,"  for  the  rains 
have  been  so  long  withheld  from  the  mountain 
springs  that  the  bi"ook  is  almost  dry  ;  so  on  we 
must  go,  over  this  rocky  hill  and  down  the  deep 
ravine  beyond,  where  we  will  find  water.  Not 
so  fast  though,  for  uncle  Ned,  who  is  driving  the 
carriage  so  carefully,  has  promised  to  keep  a 
good  lookout  upon  us  from  his  box,  and  see 
that  no  accident  happens;  and  so  we  must  even 
keep  in  sight  of  him,  lest  our  friends  in  the  car- 
riage should  grow  uneasy;  for  I  could  not  be 
prevailed  upon  to  take  a  seat  with  them,  having 
the  horrors  of  sick-headache  too  distiuctly  before 
my  view,  and  with  true  woman's  wilfulness,  in- 
sisted on  the  saddle,^ — esteeming  the   want  of 


other  escort  than  the  carriage  as  no  hinderance 
whatever.  Sure  enough,  "  Gyp,"  here  is  the 
watei-— and  now  for  the  ascent — a  long  way  up, 
but,  to  reward  us  at  the  top,  there  is  spread  out 
before  us  a  rich  summer  landscape.  Here  is  an 
open  grain  field,  from  which  they  are  carrying 
the  heavy  harvest  of  ripe  sheaves ;  and  there  are 
two  little  negroes  (why  is  it  that  they  always 
remind  one  of  monkeys?)  "  minding  the  gap,"  as 
they  tell  us.  Happy  little  urchins, — with  their 
wooly  heads,  rolling  eyes,  and  bare  ebony  arms 
and  legs,  which  their  scant  covering  displays  to 
the  best  advantage  ;  there  they  can  lie  under  the 
shade,  and  rejoice  in  the  Italian  lazaroni's  delight, 
dolci  far  niente.  There  are  a  dozen  of  the  un- 
clean animals  before  us,  which  the  dark  little 
imps  have  warded  from  "  the  gap"  (and  which, 
by  the  way,  furnish  the  best  hams  in  the  world, 
not  excepting  the  celebrated  Westphalia,  because 
they  are  allowed  to  grow  older  than  elsewhere, 
and  enjoy  the  happiness  of  running  wild  in  the 
fields  and  woods.)  Suppose  we  give  them  a 
run — how  they  can  scamper! — and  now  they 
have  turned  off  into  that  bit  of  woods,  and, 
thinking  they  are  safe,  have  wheeled  about  to 
face  the  cuemy.  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  v.'him- 
sical  picture  of  swinish  determination  than  they 
present  as  they  stand  so  steadily  gazing  at  us  ? 
What  can  they  be  thinking  off  Something  deep, 
no  doubt. 

Now  we  mount  the  brow  of  another  hill,  and 
I  am  sure,  Annie,  you  never  saw  a  grander 
sight  than  that  chain  of  dark  blue  mountains, 
stretching  round  two-thirds  of  the  horizon,  and 
embracing  "  a  most  living  landscape."  Some  are 
sharply  pointed,  "like  an  encampment  of  giants' 
tent.*,"  as  Southey  says:  others  are  curved  in  a 
perfect  line  of  beauty— the  deep  gorges  between, 
where  one  melts  into  another,  are  almost  black 
in  their  depth  of  blue,  and  from  base  to  summit, 
they  are  clothed  in  the  heaviest,  richest  foliage. 
How  shall  we  express  in  glowing  enough  terms 
our  admiration  of  their  glory,  magnificence,  and 
sublimity.  We  can  truly  say  with  Randolph,  as 
when  gazing  on  a  like  scene,  he  turned  to  his 
servant  and  said,  "  John,  if  ever  you  hear  a  man 


no 


HORSEBACK   RAMBLES  AMO  IS' G  THE   MOUNTAINS. 


bay  '  There  is  no  God,'  tell  him  he  lies !"  Or  with 
Napoleon,  who,  when  sailing  under  a  brilliant, 
star-lit  sky,  posed  some  of  his  skeptical  officers, 
aa  he  pointed  upwards,  and  asked — "  Gentlemen, 
teho  made  all  these]"  Wlio  but  God  could  pile 
together  those  mountains  in  such  seemingly  wild 
confusion,  yet  such  inimitable  and  unchanging 
order — who  else  could  deck  them  in  such  a  gar- 
niture of  light  and  shade — wlio  else  could  crown 
them  with  such  sun-bright  clouds — who  else 
could  veil  Ihern  Avith  such  blue,  such  golden, 
such  silver  mists?  Oh,  for  the  utterance  of  a  poet 
to  give  voice  to  that  beauty, 

'■  TiThose  dn-elling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  blue  slcy,  and  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth." 

Well,  Well,  Annie,  we  must  content  ourselves 
with  the  thought,  that  we  can  see,  can  perhaps 
even  feel,  all  a  poet  could,  and  certainly  can 
luxuriate  in  his  descriptions.  What  ecstasies 
Southey  goes  into  about  Skiddawand  Helvelyn ! 
— (by  the  way,  have  you  read  his  corrcspond- 
euce?  It  is  a  most  agreeable  book  for  a  lazy 
summer  aftez-noon,  notwithstanding  all  the  crit- 
ics say  about  its  prosiness  and  prolixity.)  And 
Christopher  North,  in  his  dreamj^,  delicious 
aketches  of  Westmoreland  scenery,  how  he  glo- 
rifies those  mountains ;  and  yet  I  cannot  think 
they  are  more  worthy  than  our  magnificent  Alle- 
ghanies.  But  the  wand  of  the  poet  has  touched 
them,  and  they  are  "consecrate  in  song."  We 
only  need  "  the  spiritualizing  mists  "  of  poetry 
about  ours  to  make  them  just  as  beautiful. 

I  wonder  what  you  think,  "  Gyp,"  my  gallant 
"  bay,"  not  "  grey ;" — no  doubt,  that  it  is  very 
stupid  to  stand  here  at  the  top  of  a  hill,  gazing 
at  the  mountains, — 3'oti  would  vastly  prefer  to 
turn  into  that  oat-field  on  our  left,  and  satiate 
some  other  sense  than  sight.  Well,  one  cannot 
live  on  heights  for  ever, — so  down,  down,  down 
we  go,  till  we  come  to  the  river  brink.  Are  you 
afraid  to  cross  the  water,  Annie  ?  You  need  not 
be,  your  spirit  robes  need  fear  no  wetting;  and 
I  shall  gather  up  my  flov/ing  train.  Carefully 
now,  good  "  Gyp," — lift  j'our  feet  and  place  them 
well, — there,  you  have  done  it  finely ; — fording 
a  river  is  not  such  a  frightful  thing,  after  all.  Ah 
— here  we  are  in  a  pretty  grove  of  paw-paws. 
Why  is  it  that  Americans  so  neglect  to  cultivate 
them  for  shrubbery?  Clumps  of  them,  with 
their  rich,  laurel-shaped  leaves,  would  look  beau- 
tiful arising  from  a  smoothly  shaven  lawn,  and 
then  the  fruit  is  considered  very  palatable  by 
many.  See ! — there  is  a  most  tropical  looking 
bunch,  clustered  on  the  stem  after  the  fashion 
of  the  plantain,  and  somewhat  of  .he  sarnc  shape 


and  color,  only  more  rounded  and  of  a  lighter 
green.  Perhaps  it  is  admired  and  cultivated  in 
England  as  many  plants  are,  which  wclook  upon 
as  "outside  barbarians,"  v/ild  things  not  worth 
cultivating ;  for  there  all  great  estates  have  what 
they  call  "American  plantation)?," — that  is,  most 
carefully  cultivated  groves  of  American  trees.  A 
lady  encountered  a  mullen  there  in  a  green 
house,  which  was  much  admired  for  its  wooly 
leaves  and  stately  spike  of  yellow  flowers. 

N'import,  we  will  learn  in  time — many  of  the 
travelers  now  across  "the  water"  M'ill  bring  new 
ideas  home  with  them,  and  perhaps  one  not  the 
least  in  importance  will  be  a  more  proper  appre- 
ciation of  our  oAvn  products  and  resources. 

But  while  we  have  been  speculating  upon  the 
beauties  of  future  lawns  and  shrubberies,  "Gyp" 
has  been  quietly  pursuing  his  way,  and  has 
brought  us  out  of  the  deep  shade  of  several 
groups  of  woods,  and  see — what  a  graceful  sweep 
of  the  ro.ad  brings  in  sight!  How  near  the 
mountains  are;  it  seems  as  if  we  might  almost 
touch  them.  What  appeared  to  us  some  miles 
back  only  deep  shades,  now  that  the  mysterious 
veil  of  distance  is  withdrawn,  prove  to  be  the 
wide  gaps  between  pyramidal  mountains,  and 
the  dark  shades  are  the  most  distant  spurs  of  the 
same  great  ridge.  How  exceedingly  beautiful 
they  all  are, — and  what  a  variety  of  shades  we 
perceive  now,  which  blended  in  the  distance  to 
one  harmonious  deep  blue.  Those  brown  or 
golden  spots  are  the  dead  pines.  It  always 
makes  me  sorrj'  to  see  a  tree  die.  It  seems  like 
so  many  years'  labor  lost — so  many  summer  suns 
and  dews  all  gone  for  nothing !  This  same  dis- 
ease in  pines  is  caused,  it  is  said,  by  a  worm  at 
the  heart,  and  extends  through  the  great  forests 
of  North  and  South  Carolina,  all  the  way  indeed 
to  Florida. 

But  we  must  turn  away  from  the  mountains, 
and  away  from  the  sparkling,  glancing  river,  for 
another  curve  in  our  road  brings  us  to  the  termi- 
nation of  our  ride,  and  to  the  house  of  the  friends 
whom  we  arc  going  to  visit.  How  prettily  it  is 
situated,  and  see  Avhat  taste  has  done,  in  sparing 
so  fine  a  clump  of  trees  beside  it.  As  it  nestles 
almost  under  the  mountain's  brow,  we  might 
call  it  a  cottage,  for,  in  modern  parlance,  that 
means  a  comfortable  two-story  house,  with  high 
ceilings  and  pleasant  verandahs;  and  judging  of 
the  high  ceilings  by  those  large  windows,  and 
those  pretty  white  columns,  and  the  trees,  and 
clustering  roses, — surely,  this  is  a  cottage. 

There  come  our  friends  too,  with  true  Virginia 
hospitality  and  cordiality,  to  meet  us,  not  wait- 
ing on  the  portico  in  quiet  lady-like  repose  of 
manner,  but  coming  to  welcome  us  as  we  alight, 


HOME. 


141 


and  conduct  us  up  the  broad  gravel  walk,  set 
thick  on  each  side  with  jessamine  and  roses,  and 
the  queenly  dahlia.  And  now,  "Gyp,"  commit- 
ting you  to  the  care  of  the  dark-faced  servants, 
whose  white  teeth  glisten  a  welcome  not  less 
eager  than  their  master  and  young  mistresses, — 
and  your  spirit,  Annie,  to  any  chance  cloud, 
purple  or  amber-colored,  whichever  you  prefer,' 
to  carry  you  whither  you  list,  I  will  enter  the 
house,  not  turning  again,  lest  another  glance  at 


the  grassy,  shady  orchard,  sloping  down  to  the 
curving,  rippling  river,  and  the  grand  mountain 
outline  and  background  beyond,  should  tempt 
me  away  to  spend  the  night  with  mountain  mists, 
at  the  eminent  risk  of  cold-eatching  ;  for  I  am  not 
so  fortunate  as  to  be  like  tlie  ladies  of  romance, 
who  can  go  through  rain  and  mists  without  sore 
throats,  and  with  hair  that  never  uncurls,  and 
dresses  that  never  soil. 


-♦*-a^-t-«— 


HOME 


Home,  the  home  of  childhood  and  of  youth, 
how  dear  must  it  ever  be  to  the  heart  of  man- 
hood !  Years  may  have  elapsed  since  we  looked 
upon  its  venerable  form,  or  crossed  its  threshold, 
worn  by  the  tread  of  generations,  but  it  can 
never  fade  from  our  memory,  or  be  displaced 
from  our  recollection  by  any  other  we  have 
since  learned  to  call  our  home. 

Tlie  love  of  home,  like  the  love  of  country,  is 
confined  to  no  class  ;  it  is  not  to  be  bounded  by 
the  landmarks  of  nobility,  or  limited  in  its  uni- 
versal sovereignty  by  the  restraints  of  rank. 
The  lordly  mansion  and  the  splendid  palace  may 
have  little  of  home  to  bless  their  magnificence, 
while  the  lowly  hut  reposing  beneath  their  shade 
may  make  good  a  title  to  the  endearing  name. 
The  traveler  may  have  gazed  on  many  a  sunny 
landscape  and  many  a  noble  shore.  The  heav- 
ing forest  or  the  waving  prairie  may  have 
spread  their  loveliness  before  him,  majestic  riv- 
ers may  have  courted  his  admiration,  or  the  soft 
murmurings  of  some  blue  lake  have  wooed  him 
to  repose — but  these,  though  they  may  charm  for 
awhile,  cannot  win  his  heart  from  home.  He 
may  have  wandered  beneath  the  glowing  sky  of 
Italj',  or  climbed  the  rocky  heights,  grand  in 
their  towering  ruggednes.a,  of  Switzerland.  His 
footsteps  may  have  echoed  amid  the  ruins  of 
Greece,  or  trod  in  paths  hallowed  bj'  the  feet  of 
Him  who  trod  earth,  with  no  home  in  which  to  lay 
His  head.  But  tlie  glories  of  Italian  scenery,  the 
mournful  associations  of  lovely  Greece,  or  the 
still  more  tender  recollections  of  holy  Palestine, 
may  not  tempt  him  to  do  more  than  linger  for  a 
moment  by  the  way,  and  then  press  on  to  that 
less  favored,  it  may  be,  but  far  dearer,  land 
"where  is  his  home. 

The   sailor,  as  in   the  lonelv  night-watch  he 


paces  the  deck  of  his  gallant  vessel,  bounding 
along  over  some  distant  sea,  while  the  moaning 
wind  whistles  through  the  cordage,  dreams  it  is 
the  voice  of  spirits,  whispering  of  home — the 
home  he  quitted  so  readily,  but  which  he  now 
longs  for  as  the  tempest-driven  bird  for  the  nest 
it  has  too  rashly  forsaken.  Many  a  strange  vicis- 
situde has  he  undergone  since  he  left  that  peace- 
ful spot ;  at  one  time  the  scented  gales  of  Araby 
have  flung  their  fragrance  around  him,  as  his 
bark  glided  gracefully  through  the  rippling 
waters  of  the  blue  Mediterranean  ;  at  another, 
the  rude  blast  of  the  tempest  has  struck  his  reel- 
ing ship,  and  sent  her  leaping  and  quivering 
over  the  mountain  waves  of  the  boundless  Atlan- 
tic. But,  alike  in  sunshine  and  in  storm,  the 
silken  zephyr  coidd  not  woo,  nor  the  roaring 
hurricane  drive  from  his  breast  the  sweet  hope 
of  one  day  revisiting  the  home  now  so  far 
away. 

The  thought  of  home  is  that  which  infuses  its 
greatest  vigor  into  the  arm  of  the  warrior,  ren- 
dering him  on  the  battle-field  indifferent  to  the 
tramp  of  the  war-horse,  the  flash  of  the  bayonet, 
or  the  roar  of  the  cannon  ;  and  which,  on  the  bed 
of  sickness,  breathes  consolation  into  his  wounds, 
and  robs  them  of  half  their  pain,  by  reminding 
him  of  their  reward. 

It  matters  not  whether  that  home  be  in  the 
dim  recesses  of  snow-crowned  Norway,  or  in  the 
beaming  plains  of  laughing  France — under  the 
burning  sun  of  Africa's  scorched  up  deserts,  or 
by  some  glistening  stream  in  forest  glade  of  dear 
old  England — by  Niagara's  foaming  precipice,  or 
Geneva's  peaceful  lake — home  is  everywhere 
home.  "  Home,  sweet,  sweet  home,"  is  the  song 
in  which  all  nations  maj-  join,  for  truly  "  there 
is  no  place  like  home." 


A   SOLILOQUY. 


FROM   THE    DIARY    OF   A    CLERGYMAN". 


Life!  pictures  of  life!  wliat  are  they?  Life 
has  no  pictures.  It  cannot  be  painted ;  it  re- 
fuses to  be  transferred  to  canvixss  ;  it  u<ill  be  the 
same  indescribable  and  2ttipaintahle  thing,  all  art 
and  poetry  notwithstanding.  It  is  too  much  of 
a  reality  to  suffer  coloring.  The  original  will 
not  "sit"  to  the  artist;  and  his  highest  skill  can- 
not equal  its  strange,  yet  familiar — extraordina- 
ry, yet  common  features.  Alas!  alas!  what  have 
I  seen,  what  heard,  what  felt?  O  earth,  earth, 
shall  it  be  always  thus?  Pain,  sin,  sorrow — sor- 
row, sin,  pain  always?  One  multiform,  mani- 
fold, ever-changing,  everlasting  cycle  of  joy, 
grief,  laughter,  madness,  death !  A  serio-comic 
dance  of  wild  liberty  and  rattling  chains,  of  men 
"great  of  flesh  "  and  ghastly  skeletons,  of  bloated 
vanity  and  broken-hearted  virtue,  of  chariots 
and  Avar-horses,  of  hearses  and  coffins  for  the 
dead,  of  marriages  and  deaths,  bells  pealing  in 
the  morning  and  tolling  at  night — and  all  this 
accompanied  by  the  horrid  harmony  of  merry 
laughter,  hysteric  screams,  psalms  of  gratitude, 
groans  of  agony,  shouts  of  despair,  and  songs  of 
drunkards!  O  eai-th,  earth,  prolific  mother! 
sometimes  thou  puttest  on  such  beautiful  smiles, 
that  I  cannot  avoid  loving  thee,  but,  when  I  think 
of  thy  history,  I  feel  an  iuvoluntaiy  shudder! 
Why  ? — thou  art  guilty  of  millions  of  infanticides, 
thou  art  choked  with  the  blood  of  thy  children, 
thoii  art  laden  with  corpses  uncounted,  and  thou 
ploddest  in  grave-clothes  thy  way  through  the 
measureless  vault  of  the  heavens!  Thou  art  a 
great  hearse,  a  grave-yard,  a  network  of  vaults 
for  the  dead,  a  huge  urn  ;  and  whither  art  thou 
traveling  with  thy  terrible  load,  august  yet  ter- 
rific mother?  Thousands  of  nations,  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  generations,  have  been  committed 
to  thy  keeping,  thou  grim  jailer !  j\Iany  a  proud 
king  lies  securely  bound  in  thy  cells,  thy  dun- 
geons are  crowded  with  despots  and  slaves,  the 
one  harmless  and  the  other  unharmed  now ;  and 
thou  art  rich  in  cities — the  wealth  of  empires  lies 
fast  locked  in  thy  granite  safes,  and  all  that  na- 
tions have  toiled  for  thou  clairaest  as  thine  own. 
Imperious  and  insatiable !  shall  it  be  always  thus  ? 
Is  there  no  goal  to  this  weary  race — no  intermis- 
sion, no  rest,  not  even  a  halting-place,  or  "  sta- 


tion," by  the  way  ?  Humanity  is  tired  of  thia 
monotony.  Man  cries  for  change,  his  heart  aches 
for  something  new,  he  groans  for  relief,  and,  as 
in  the  days  of  old,  asks  a  sign  from  heaven.  Shall 
no  sign  be  given  him  ? 

But  is  he  not  surrounded  with  signs?  Are  not 
miracles  every-day  phenomena  ?  Is  not  creation 
a  miracle?  Are  not  the  seasons  miracles,  and 
night  and  day,  and  sun,  moon,  and  stars  ?  Is  he 
not  himself  a  miracle  to  himself?  Miracles  are 
mystei'ies;  and  is  not  every  man  a  mystery  to 
himself?  Every  man  is  a  publication,  a  pro- 
phetic roll,  a  book,  whose  leaves  are  the  heart, 
the  sentiments,  the  feelings,  the  senses,  and  the 
soul !  I  see,  every  day  and  hour  of  my  rapid 
journey,  great  sights  and  signs  from  heaven.  I 
have  not  time  critically  to  examine  them  all.  I 
pass  through  them,  and  they  pass  by  me,  with  a 
velocity  which  prohibits  close  analysis  ;  but  this 
swiftness  is  itself  one  of  the  signs  for  which  I  fool- 
ishly call.  Like  a  child  with  too  many  toys,  I 
seek  relief  by  crying  for  more,  as  if  an  increase 
to  the  causes  of  the  difficulty  would  diminish  its 
intensity. 

It  cannot  be  the  design  of  the  omnipotent  arid 
merciful  Creator  that  matters  are  to  remain  for 
ever  in  this  state.  The  earth  gives  no  answer  to 
my  questions ;  but  I  imagine  an  audible  groan 
from  its  heart,  as  if  burdened  with  its  dreadful 
load,  anxious  to  give  up  its  charge,  to  cast  out  its 
dead,  and  to  enjoy  the  redemption  which  the 
true  Book  says  awaits  it.  When  that  period  ar- 
rives, what  if  it  shall  be  discovered  that  this 
globe  of  sepulchres  is  the  most  prolific  life-world 
in  the  universe?  that  death,  the  enemy,  is  work- 
ing— not  willingly,  but  by  constraint— i/'i7/(  Him 
who  is  the  Life,  and  whose  purpose  is  to  subdue 
all  things  to  himself?  that  the  distresses,  perplex- 
ities, woes,  agonies,  and  mortality  of  the  present, 
are  but  mysterious  creating  processes,  all  uni- 
formly and  steadily  tending  to  a  gloriously  finish- 
ed creation  ?  that  we  are,  consequently,  present 
at,  and  witnesses  of,  and  take  part  in,  this  elabo- 
ration of  an  eternal  and  wonderful  idea— of  com- 
pelling all  temporary  evil  to  minister  to  the 
erection  of  a  magnificent  system  of  everlasting 
good?  and  that  we  shall  be  able  to  say  hereafter. 


flEV.  GKORGE  I'tn'TS.  p.  D. 


A   SOLILOQUY 


143 


we  were  present  at  the  moral  creation,  saw  some 
of  the  divine  acts  in  tlmt  stupendous  work,  and 
had  some  slight  share,  though  then  we  knew  it 
not,  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  infinitely  wise 
designs?     It  will  be  something  to  say  hereafter, 
that  we  remember  certain  stages  in  the  creating 
process ;    that   what  we    considered    a   terrible 
waste  of  life  was  but  the  transition  to  a  higher 
kind  of  life ;  that  the  sorrows  of  our  great  family 
were  bxit  the  seeds  of  immortal  joy ;  and  that, 
whilst  laying  our  dead  in  the  earth,  we  were  ac- 
tually accumulating  stores  of  deathless  vitality. 
Certainly  there  is  some  connection  between  sow- 
ing in  tears  and  reaping  in  joy;  and  possibly 
that  connection  is  closer  than  any  one  imagines. 
It  strikes  me  that  the  processes  of  creation  and 
redemption  are  going  on  simultaneously ;  or,  per- 
haps, it  would  be  more  correct  to  say,  that  the 
process  of  redemption  is  a  creation,  a  making  all 
tilings  new  out  of  the  old  materials,  subjecting 
all  things  to  one  design,  compelling  death  to  be 
the  nursery,   instead  of  the  grave,  of  life,    and 
making  this  earth  the  groundwork  on  which  the 
grandest  of  all  problems  shall  be  solved,  namely, 
the  subjugation  of  error  and  sin  into  everlasting 
subordination  to  truth  and  holiness.     I  have  faith 
enough  both  in  the  wisdom  and  love  of  the  Re- 
deemer to  believe  all  this.  "  As  sin  hath  abounded, 
grace   has  supeiabounded,"  may  be  taken  as  a 
principle  capable  of  most  extensive  application. 
The  question  as  to  the  introduction  of  evil  into 
our  world  docs  not  trouble  me.     I  infer,  from  the 
paucity  of  information  respecting  it,  that  an  am- 
pler revelation  would  l;ave   been  no  blessing. 
God's   kindness  is  manifested  by  his  silence  as 
well  as  by  his  voice  ;  and  while  his  benign  su- 
premacy is  undisturbed  by  the  introduction  of 
sin,  a  hearty  concurrence  with  his  system  of  re- 
covery is  more  profitable  employment  than  curi- 
ous speculation  about  the  origin  of  evil.     It  is  lit- 
tle satisfaction  to  a  sufferer  to  remember  distinctly 
how  and  where  he  caught  an  infectious  disease  ; 
but  it  is  much  to  have  the  assurance  of  an  able 
physician  that,  on  condition  of  strict  attention  to 
his  prescriptions,   the  disease   will  speedily  be 
conquered  ;  and,  whilst  it  is  sadly  true  that  I  am 
a  daily  sufferer  in  consequence  of  sin,  I  think  it 
can  hardly  be  questioned  that  my  powers  of  en- 
joyment, both  present  and  prospective,  are  far 
greater  than  they  would  have  been  had  I  not 
"  known  sin."     This,  however,  is  not  a  necessary 
result  of  evil,   notwithstanding  the  mysterious 
connection  between  contrasts,  but  the  effect  of 
divine  arrangements  in  the  gospel  of  Jesus  Christ. 
The  doctrine  of  necessity  ought  not  to  be  pressed 
into  the  service  of  humanity.     It  obviously  rests 


upon  its  own  merits.     To  drag  it  out  of  its  legiti- 
mate province,  is  to  open  the  floodgates  of  heresy. 
"Whatever  God  hath  decreed  is,  of  course,  neces- 
sary, for  that  very  reason  ;  but  our  knowledge  of 
his  decree  extends  not  beyond  that  "which  is 
written ;"  and  the  assumption  of  necessity  where 
no  doctrine  is  declared,  is  utterly  unwarrantable. 
In  this  case,  namely,  the  probable  good  to  which 
existence  may  be  given  by  the  intervention  of 
evil  in  our  part  of  the  divine  dominions,  it  is  ob- 
vious that  it  cannot  be  necessary  in  the  same  way 
that  acting  causes  necessarily  produce  correspond- 
ing  effects;    but  that  good   may  spring   out  of 
greater  good  overruling  evil,  may  be  firmly  held 
as  an   article  of  faith,  supposing  a  declaratory 
revelation  to  that  effect.     Now,  we  have  such  a 
revelation  ;  and  it  accords  at  once  with  our  best 
wishes  for  the  world  of  men,  and  with  our  duty, 
firmly  to  believe,  and  earnestly  to  hope  for  the 
blessings  which  that  revelation  promises. 

This,  then,  is  j)reciscly  the  position  in  whicli 
we  stand  respecting  this  suffering  family  of  man- 
kind.    We  should  knoAV  nothing  beyond  the  fact 
that  the  earth  is  a  great  burial  ground,  but  for  a 
divine  revelation.     AVe  should  sufi'er  and  witness 
sorrows  innumerable  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  the  year,  without  an  intimation  regarding 
either  their  commencement  or  their  close ;   we 
should  plod  on  through  the  gloom,  sad  in  spirit 
and  wretched  at  heart,  without  the  least  idea  of 
a  brilliant  sun  about  to  rise  on  the  thick  dark- 
ness;  we  should  guess,  speculate,  philosophize, 
and  dream,  about  causes  and  effects,  means  and 
ends,  without  any  assured  principle  of  interpreta- 
tion, or  settled  axiom  to  which  opinions  might 
be  referred,  or  by  which  the  value  of  theories 
might  be  determined;   and  we  should  wonder 
that  the  Being  whose  power  and  wisdom  were 
equal  to  the  tremendous  work  of  making  and 
peopling  a  great  world,  should  leave  it  to  be  the 
prey  of  demons  and  the  arena  of  conflict  to  a 
thousand  generations  of  men;    but  we  should 
never,  without   a   divine  revelation,   grasp  the 
thought  that  all  the  past  is  only  a  few  steps  in 
the  procession  of  the  Eternal  towards  a  magnifi- 
cent and  most  glorious  end,  when  the  mystery  of 
God  shall  be  finished,  and  the  regenerated  earth 
become  the  most  splendid  world   in    the  star- 
thronged  universe. 

Yet^  that  this  is  the  case,  and  that  such  will  be 
the  issue,  I  no  more  doubt,  than  I  do  the  existence 
of  the  sun  at  mid-day.  "Wliy  should  I  ?  "Is  any- 
thing too  hard  for  the  Lord?"  Faitli  is  knowl- 
edge. "  Bv  faith  vn:  know."  And  if  there  be  a 
God — the  atfirmative  of  which  is  infinitely  more 
rational  than  the  negative — it  is  morally  certain 


U4  ? 


SUNSET    IN    BAFFIN'S    BAY 


that  he  will  accomplish  his  original  purpose,  and 
that  he  will  not  leave  a  world,  upon  which  he 
has  expended  so  much  care  and  attention — a 
■world  which  has  literally  cost  him  so  much — un- 
til he  shall  have  effected  his  first  design  regarding 
it,  to  the  very  letter.  Of  him  it  shall  never  be 
said,  "He  began  to  build,  and  was  not  able  to 
finish."  It  is  certain  that  we  are  nearer  the  con- 
summation than  were  our  fathers ;  and  it  is  high- 


ly probable  that,  as  we  approach  the  end,  the  ra- 
pidity of  events  will  be  amazingly  accelerated. 
Already,  to  speak  with  reverence,  tie  compara- 
tively slow  movements  of  Divine  Providence 
seem  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  indications  of  a 
rapid  winding-up  of  the  multitudinous  afiairs  of 
nations  and  of  time  are  neither  few  nor  unim- 
portant. No,  earth,  earth,  it  will  not  be  always 
thus  ! 


SUNSET    IN    BAFFIN'S   BAY. 


BY     MISS     J 


B  E  8  S  A  C 


Calm  lay  the  sea.  and  far  away, 
Like  marble  piles,  tlie  pure  snow  slept, 
And  heaven  was  bright  with  such  a  day 
As  in  the  arms  of  night  ne'er  wept. 
A  veil  'tis  true  was  lightly  thrown 
Of  rainbow  hues  upon  its  brow, 
But  through  the  parted  folds  it  shone 
With  beams  of  dazzling  splendor  now. 
I  said  the  sea  lay  calm,  and  bright, 
And  cold,  for  there  the  iceberg's  form 
Reared  high  its  head  amid  the  light, 
As  it  were  not  the  child  of  storm. 
It  was  the  noon  of  night — but  far 
In  the  clear  North  the  red  sun  glowed  ; 
It  was  no  night  of  monn,  and  star, 
For  sunbright  splendors  o'er  it  flowed — 
And  feudal  towers  whose  banners  fling 
Their  folds  upon  the  silent  air, 
Rose  proudly — Did  the  trumpet  ring, 
To  call  the  banner'd  hosts  from  far  ? 
Or  did  yon  mountain  raise  its  voice 
Of  thunder  to  arouse  the  world  ? 


Look  where  its  floods  of  lava- flame 

Are  from  its  icy  ramparts  hurl'd  ! 

How  gorgeous  in  the  purple  light 

Arise  those  pillar'd  domes  to  heaven,  " 

And  burnish'd  spires  throw  forth  the  light 

In  orient  richness  given. 

Doth  no  tall  palm  its  fanlike  leaves 

Spread  o'er  it  in  the  golden  ray  ? 

Doth  there  the  daik-eyed  Bayadere 

Move  in  the  dance  away  ? 

Those  glorious  lands,  those  storied  piles. 

Those  towers  of  high  ancestral  fame, 

Those  relics  of  the  glorious  past 

Need  but  the  prestige  of  a  name. 

The  mirage  lifts  ;  mount,  dome  and  tower. 

All  vanish  in  the  rising  beam. 

And  lava  flood,  and  banner-fold, 

Fade  from  the  changing  scene. 

The  iceberg,  and  the  mountain  snow, 

And  the  wild  sea,  remain  ; 

The  Arctic  day,  without  a  night, 

is  on  its  march  again. 


GUARDIAN    ANGELS. 


Guardian  angels,  guardian  angels  I 

They  are  with  us  night  and  day, 
Dropping  flowers  of  love  the  brightest 

As  they  watch  us  on  our  way. 
In  our  sorrows,  in  our  troubles, 

They  with  care  around  us  throng, 
Ever  guarding  us  from  danger, 

Ever  shielding  us  from  wrong. 

Guardian  angels,  guardian  angels  .' 
Are  a  source  of  comfort  here, 

They  prepare  our  every  blessing, 
Bring  us  all  we  hold  most  dear — 


Turn  aside  those  ills  and  trials 

Which  our  spirits  could  not  brook; 

But  for  them,  we  all  should  stumble — 
Fall  at  every  step  we  took. 

Guardian  angels,  guardian  angels  .' 

Still  your  benedictions  pour, 
On  our  hearts  the  joys  of  truth, 

Tlie  light  of  virtue  ever  shower  ; 
Teach  us  how  we  may  our  blessings 

Ever  cherish,  still  increase, 
And  grant  that  every  flower  we  pluck 

May  be  a  flower  of  love — of  peace — 
Guardian  angels  '. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


Charles  Lamb  in  one  of  his  essays  once  divided  j 
men  into  two  classes,  those  who  borrow,  and  j 
those  who  lend :  following  his  example,  we  are  j 
disposed  to  be  as  narrow  in  our  classification  of  ' 
poets,  whom  we  divide  into  those  who  are  ori- 
ginal and  those  who  are  not ;  the  word  orginal,  ! 
however,  by  no  means  fully  or  correctly  explains 
our  meaning.  Many  poets  are  strikingly  original 
in  thought,  whose  mode  of  embodiment  is  as  old 
as  the  hills.  The  common  sense  of  mankind  is  dis- 
seminated from  stereotyped  plates,  and  so  is 
more  than  half  of  all  the  different  branches  of 
English  literature.  There  is  no  marked  or  radi- 
cal difference  in  the  style  of  Pope,  Grey,  Cowper, 
Wordswortli,  and  Southey : — difference  there  cer- 
tainly is  in  expression,  in  the  length  and  turning 
of  periods,  and  a  thousand  minor  points,  but  they 
all  leave  the  same  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
generality  of  readers,  as  far  as  their  style  is  con- 
cerned. Not  so  however  with  Tennyson,  Miss  Bar. 
rett  (now  Mrs.  Browning),  and  Robert  Browning 
himself.  The  peculiarities  and  excellencies  of 
the  two  former  are  mostly  understood  and  appre- 
ciated, but  the  latter  is  comparatively  unknown, 
especially  in  America,  where  his  works  have  only 
been  reprinted  during  the  past  year.  We  should 
not  be  surprised  if  he  never  attained  general 
popularity  anywhere :  he  is  not  a  stereotype  man, 
but  bold  and  original,  not  to  say  bizarre  in 
ever^'thing  that  he  attempts.  He  evidently 
holds  critics  in  utter  contempt.  He  does  not 
write  for  them  nor  for  the  world :  he  wants  a 
"  fit  audience  though  few." 

His  plays  are  puzzles  to  the  mass  of  readers : 
devoid  of  what  is  generaly  considered  jilot  and 
action  and  delineation  of  character,  they  seem, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  are,  obscure ;  but  the 
obscurity  lies  as  much  in  the  reader  as  the  poet : 
he  needs  a  metaphysician  to  xmderstand  him 
thoroughly  :  he  delineated  the  motives  and  work- 
ing of  the  minds  of  his  various  characters  with- 
out any  reference  to  anything  else,  or  anything 
tangible  or  earthly :  he  places  himself  in  their 
diflferent  situations,  and  thinks  as  they  would  ; 
thinks  metaphysiailly,  deeply,  passionately,  but 
not  actively  :  he  never  acts  :  there  is  no  plot  in 
any  of  his  plays  that  would  for  a  moment  be 
tolerated  on  the  stage :  his  characters  are  not 
men  but  minds,  they  wear  no  clay  around  them: 
"  Paracelsus,"  one  of  his  earliest  efforts,  is  a  con- 


versation.al,  we  can  hardly  call  it  a  dramatic  poem, 
in  which  he  endeavors  to  depicture  the  struggles 
of  a  noble  but  restless  nature,  smitten  with  a  thirst 
of  knowledge,  but  scorning  from  the  first  human 
love.  His  bursts  of  exultation  and  confidence 
as  to  the  divinity  of  his  mission — his  accountof  the 
growth  of  his  desires,  and  the  certainty  of  their 
success — his  after  depression  and  fear,  uncertainty 
^and  disappointment,  are  finely  but  abstractly 
drawn :  Paracelsus  is  perhaps  too  much  of  a 
logician,  but  we  must  remember  that  he  is  a 
student  and  dreamer. 

The  following  passage  is  not  over  poetically 
expressed,  but  philosophically  true :  — 

"  Truth  is  within  ourselves ;  it  takes  no  rise 
From  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe  : 
There  is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all 
Where  truth  abides  in  fullness  ;  and  around 
Wall  upon  wall  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in, 
This  perfect  clear  perception — which  is  truth  : 
A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 
Blinds  it.  and  makes  all  error,  and  To  know 
Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 
Whence  the  imprisoned  splendor  may  escape, 
Than  in  effecting  entry  for  a  light 
Supposed  to  be  without. 

The  lines  below  must  have  been  written  in  the 
full  flush  and  pride  of  youth  : — 

'^  Make  no  more  giants,  God! 
But  elevate  the  race  at  once  !  We  ask 
Just  to  put  forth  our  strength,  our  human  strength  , 
All  starling  fairly,  all  equipped  alike, 
Gifted  alike,  all  eagle-eyed,  true-hearted- 
See  if  we  cannot  beat  thy  angels  yet  1" 

"Pippa  Passes"  is  one  of  the  finest  eflbrts  of 
the  modern  muse:  the  idea  of  the  play  is  poetical 
and  beautifully  executed — Pippa,  a  poor  ophan 
girl  whose  life  is  spent  in  the  drudgery  of  a  silk 
mill,  has  a  holiday,  and  goes  through  Azolo,  sing- 
ing snatches  of  old  songs  and  h}Tnns.  In  different 
parts  of  the  town,  different  characters  have  met 
for  good  or  evil,  and  just  at  the  turning  point  Pippa 
passes  in  the  street  singing  something  applicable 
their  needs  and  desires — exerting  as  it  were  a 
mesmeric  influence  over  those  around  her.  The 
lines  quoted  below  have  been  pronounced  the 
greatest  instance  of  imagination  in  Browning's 
works,  "  their  fine  audacity  carrying  us  back  to 
the  elder  period  of  the  English  drama." 

"  Buried  in  woods  we  lay,  you  recollect, 
Swift  raa  the  searching  tenapest  overhea.d. 


146 


ROBERT  BROWNIXG, 


And  ever  and  anon  some  bright  ■white  shaft 
Burst  through  the  pine  tree  roof — burnt  here  and  there 
As  if  God's  Messenger  through  the  dose  wood- screen, 
Plunged  and  replunrred  his  weapon  at  a  venture. 
Feeling  for  guilty  thee  and  we." 

From  a  conversation  between  some  poor  girls 
we  select  the  following  passages,  whose  pathos 
and  country-feeling  have  always  made  them  fa- 
vorites with  us : — 

FIRST   GIRL. 

'"  Spring's  come,  and  summer's  coming,  I  would  wear 
A  long  low  gown — down  to  the  hands  and  feet — 
With  plaits  here,  close  about  the  throat,  all  day : 
And  all  nights  lie,  the  long  cool  nights  in  bed — 
And  have  new  millc  to  drink — -apples  to  eat, 
Deuzans  and  junctings,  leather-coats — ah  I  should  say 
This  is  away  in  the  fields  miles  1 

THIRD   GIRL. 

Say  at  once 
You'd  be  at  home- — she'd  always  be  at  home  1 — 
Now  comes  the  glory  of  the  farm  among 
The  cherry-orchards,  and  how  April  snowed 
White  blossoms  on  her,  as  she  ran  :  why,  foul  1 — 
They've  rubbed  out  the_chalk-marksof  how  tall  you  were, 
Twisted  your  starling's  neck— broken  his  cage, 
Made  a  dung-hill  of  your  garden — 

FIRST  GIRL. 

They  destroy 
My  garden  since  I  left  them? — well — perhaps  .' 
1  would  have  done  so,  so  I  hope  they  have  1 — 
A  fig-tree  curled  out  of  our  cottage  wall — 
They  called  it  mine,  I  have  forgotten  why. 
It  must  have  been  there  long  ere  I  was  born  : 
Cric — eric — I  think  I  hear  the  wasps  o'erhead. 
Pricking  the  papers  strung  to  flutter  there 
And  keep  off  birds  in  fruit  time — long  coarse  papers, 
And  the  wasps  eat  them,  prick  them  through  and  through. 

"  Colombe's  Birth-day"  and  "  The  Blot  on  the 
Scutcheon"  are  our  favorites  of  all  the  plays. 
The  first  is  full  of  chivalrous  sweetness  and  sub- 
dued passion,  the  growth  of  which  is  equal  to 
anything  in  Shakspeare.  The  last  is  full  of  love 
and  sorrow,  and  contains  the  only  flesh  and  blood 
characters  that  Browning  has  yet  given  the  world. 
Dickens  considered  it  the  finest  poem  of  the  cen- 
tury. We  know  not  where  to  find  more  sweet- 
ness, more  intensity  of  love,  more  of  the  feelings 
of  youth  and  first  grief,  than  is  scattered  through 
its  simple  and  pathetic  scenes.  We  never  read  it 
without  tears. 

The  minor  poems — "  Dramatic  Lyi-ics"  he  calls 
them — are,  perhaps,  the  most  peculiar  and  bizarre 
of  all  Browning's  writings.  They  are  for  the 
most  part  lyrical  in  expression,  but  always  dra- 
matic in  principle,  and  the  utterances  of  so  many 


imaginary  persons,  rather  than  the  author's.  Some 
of  the  mare  singular  enough — "The  last  Duchess" 
has  been  pronounced  by  one  of  the  first  dramatic 
poets  of  the  age,  to  be  the  finest  piece  of  dra. 
matic  acting  of  the  century — the  story,  and 
peculiai-ities  of  the  story  teller,  are  developed 
without  any  apparent  effort :  in  this  respect 
Browning  stands  unrivaled,  and  may  challenge 
comparison  with  the  old  masters  of  the  stage. 

"Count  Gismond"  is  a  fine  piece  of  narrative 
verse,  exquisitely  managed.  "The  Soliloquy  in 
the  Spanish  Cloister"  is  very  characteristic  of  the 
author.  "Artemi's  Prologueizes"  reads  like  a 
translation  from  the  Greek  tragedians :  the  blank 
verse  is  sounding,  stately,  and  simple.  "  The 
Bishop  orders  his  tomb  at  St.  Praxed's  Church"  is 
fully  equal  to  the  "St.  Simeon  Stylites"  of  Ten- 
nyson, though  differently  treated:  "  Porphyria's 
Lover,"  "How  they  brought  the  good  news  from 
Ghent  to  Aix,"  "The  Italian  in  England,"  "The 
Englishman  in  Italy,"  "The  Flight  of  the  Duch- 
ess"— and  "  Saul"  are  all  fine,  and  charactei-istic 
poems. 

"  The  Pied  Piper  of  Ilamelin"  is  a  specimen  of 
Browning's  diablerie  and  humor.  The  follow- 
ing is  a  good  specimen  of  its  style  and  versifica- 
tion :^ 

"rats. 
"  They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats. 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles. 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladles, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats. 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats. 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
Infifty  difFereat  sharps  and  flats." 

"  Meeting  at  Midnight,"  with  which  we  must 

close  our  extracts,  has  many  of  the  characteristics 

of  Tennyson,  and  gives  the  feeling  of  "  the  place 

and  hour." 

I. 
The  grey  sea,  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And  the  yellow  half  moon  large  and  low  ; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  toss 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep. 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow. 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

II. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ;] 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears  : 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match. 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  thro'  its  joys  and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each  ! 


EARTH'S    OLDEST    SON. 


BY     REV.     DR.     CHEETER. 


Toe  youth  of  the  world  was  the  season  of 
man's  greatest  age ;  perliaps  also  it  was  the  season 
of  man's  greatest  wickedness.  Three  things  we 
know  with  certainty,  amidst  all  the  darkness 
that  hangs  over  the  life  of  the  antediluvians; 
they  lived  to  a  great  age,  they  rose  to  a  great 
height  of  depravity,  and,  except  Enoch,  they  all 
died.  The  assurance  of  a  very  long  life  would 
be  to  any  man  either  a  great  temptation  to  sin,  or 
a  great  means  of  holiness ;  most  likely  the  former. 
Because  sentence  against  an  evil  work  is  not  exe- 
cuted speedily,  therefore  the  heart  of  the  sons  of 
men  is  fulli/  set  in  them  to  do  evil.  The  charac- 
ter written  for  our  instruction  of  the  race  of  man 
in  the  world  before  the  flood,  that  every  imagina- 
tion of  the  thoughts  of  his  heart  icas  only  evil  con- 
tinually, corresponds  unerringly  with  the  inspired 
declaration  by  the  mouth  of  Solomon.  The  sen- 
tence of  death,  deferred  for  so  many  ages,  was  al- 
most unknown,  and  came  at  length  to  be  utterly 
discredited ;  they  thought  not  of  it;  nay,  so  hardy 
and  secure  had  long  centuries  of  vigorous  exist- 
ence made  them,  that,  as  long  as  Adam  lived, 
they  might  have  dreamed  of  indefinite  centuries 
yet  to  come,  the  limit  of  man's  life,  in  all  proba- 
bility, not  having  been  made  the'Bubject  of  pre- 
cise revelation.  For  more  than  seven  antedilu- 
vian generations  no  death  is  recorded  in  the 
scriptures.  There  may  have  been  mortal  dis- 
eases, and  even  the  crime  of  Cain  may  have  been 
not  unfrequently  repeated,  for  the  earth  teas  filed 
with  violence. 

But,  for  aught  we  know,  tlie  funeral  of  Adam 
was  the  first  which  his  posterity  attended  for 
nearly  a  thousand  years.  There  was,  indeed, 
another  fimei'al ;  the  murdered  Abel  was  buried ; 
but  the  parents  were  the  only  mournei's.  With 
his  own  hands  Adam  dug  the  grave  of  his  young- 
est, best  beloved  son ;  with  his  own  hands  he 
buried  him;  and  Eve  [ilanted  the  sacred  enclos- 
ure with  flowers,  and  watered  it  with  her  tears. 
The  simplest  things  were  then  matters  of  revela- 
tion ;  death  and  its  consequences  were  so  little 
known,  that  the  angels  would  have  to  show  Adam 
what  he  must  do  with  the  bleeding  corpse  of 
Abel ;  the  language  of  Abraham,  bury  my  dead 
out  of  77iy  sight,  could  only  spring  from  experi- 


ence ;  for  if  death  left  the  bodies  of  those  we  love 
as  uncorrupted  and  as  beautiful  as  life,  we  should 
wish  to  keep  them  by  us,  though  inanimate  and 
lifeless.  The  ancient  Egyptians  had  a  strange 
custom  of  doing  this,  as  it  was.  They  sometimes 
kept  the  dead  bodies  of  their  friends  standing 
upright  in  their  houses,  embalmed  so  carefullj', 
that  every  feature  remained  as  it  was  in  life  ; 
they  kept  them,  Diodorus  tells  us,  "  in  costly 
habitations,  for  the  pleasure  of  beholding  them 
for  ever."  , 

"WTien  Methusaleh  was  born,  Adam  was  six 
hundred  and  eighty -seven  years  of  age.  When 
Adam  died,  Methusaleh  was  two  hundred  and 
eighty-two.  The  oldest  man  lived  in  the  society 
of  the  first  man  282  years.  Methusaleh  was  the 
grandfather  of  Xoah  ;  and  when  Noah  was  born, 
Methusaleh  was  369  years  old.  Methusaleh  and 
Noah  were  therefore  contemporaries  during  the 
long  space  of  600  years.  Noah  had  never  seen 
xVdam ;  the  fiither  of  the  second  race  of  mortals  had 
never  seen  the  father  of  the  first.  But  Lamech, 
Noah's  father,  and  the  first  bom  of  Methusaleh, 
had  lived,  while  Adam  was  yet  alive,  95  years; 
and  he,  as  well  as  Methusaleh,  could  describe  to 
Noah,  from  personal  knowledge  and  recollection, 
the  teachings  and  the  venerable  grandeur  of  the 
Father  of  them  all. 

The  death  of  Adam  took  place  just  eighty- 
seven  years  before  Noah's  birth.  Of  the  death  of 
Eve  no  mention  is  made  in  the  Scriptures.  How 
long  she  remained  on  earth  with  our  great  father, 
by  what  angelic  messengers  or  revelations  from 
the  Almighty  they  were  both  prepared  for  their 
departure,  or  what  blessings  and  projihetic  warn- 
ings they  left  wit  li  their  posterity  on  leaving  the 
world,  we  know  not.  Of  all  possible  circum- 
stances we  have  but  one,  and  that  the  universal 
record  of  man,  he  died.  Nor  is  the  name  of  any 
woman  of  the  posterity  of  Adam,  from  Seth  to 
Noah,  handed  down  to  us,  nor  any  glimpse  of  in- 
formation as  to  the  part  which  the  wives  of  the 
antediluvian  patriarchs  might  have  played  in  the 
education  of  tlieir  children.  Who  was  the  mother 
of  Methusaleh  ?  and  what  the  lessons  taught  him 
in  his  infancy  ?  Was  the  help-meet  of  Enoch 
chosen  for  her  piety  ?  and  did  she  walk,  like  him, 


us 


EARTH'S    OLDEST    SON". 


with  God  f  are  questions  ■which  curiosity,  paus- 
ing upon  the  life  of  the  world  before  the  flood, 
would  be  glad  to  have  answered.  But  not  a  ray 
of  information  comes  down  to  us,  nor  is  even  a 
loop-hole  left  for  conjecture,  save  that  the  charac- 
ter .of  men  like  Enoch  and  Koah  is  sufficient 
ground  for  the  supposition,  that  so  far  as  their 
minds  were  left  to  be  moulded  by  their  mothers, 
the  examples  set  before  them,  and  the  influence 
exerted  upon  them,  must  have  been  holy. 

And  now,  could  we  call  up  the  shades  of  Me- 
tbusaleh,  and  converse  with  the  oldest  man, 
what  would  be  the  lessons  of  his  experience? 
Would  they  be  greatly  different  from  ours? 
Would  ihe  thoughts  and  feelings,  the  events  and 
circumstances,  of  men  whose  life  was  of  a  thousand 
years'  duration,  be  very  diverse  from  those  of  or- 
dinary mortals,  whose  span  is  only  threescore  years 
and  ten,  or  would  one  little  limit  of  existence  vary 
from  theirs  only  as  a  miniature  does  from  a  por- 
trait, where  the  features,  the  passions,  the  expres- 
sion, are  the  same,  and  only  the  dimensions  of  the 
canvass,  the  size  of  the  painting,  are  diff"erent? 
The  temptations  of  Methusaleh  must  have  been 
like  ours;  his  christian  conflict  was  the  same; 
his  faith  was  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for, 
the  evidence  of  things  not  seen.  But  were  his 
trials  as  heavy  as  ours,  or  has  the  primeval  curse 
gathered  a  strength  in  the  progress  of  six  thou- 
sand years,  not  known  in  the  world's  infancy  ? 
What  indeed  was  affliction,  disease,  old  age,  with 
the  antediluvians  ?  Were  their  trials  spread  over 
a  larger  portion  of  existence  than  ours?  Did 
colds  and  fevers  rack  the  body  with  pain  for  a 
time  proportionally  longer  ?  Ere  the  close  of  life, 
did  the  keepers  of  the  house  tremble,  and  the 
strong  men  bow  themselves,  and  the  grinders 
cease  because  they  were  few,  and  were  those  that 
looked  out  of  the  windows  darkened  ?  Was  their 
infancy  extended  into  our  childhood,  and  their 
childhood  into  our  manhood,  so  tbat  their  youth 
was  our  age,  and  the  child  died  being  an  hundred 
years  old  ?  Was  the  flight  of  time  with  them  as 
rapid  as  with  us,  and  notwithstanding  their  long 
life,  did  they  leave  it  with  as  strong  unwilling- 
ness, with  as  deep  regret,  with  as  many  plans  in- 
complete, and  purposes  betrayed,  as  we  do  ours? 
The  unerring  truth  of  Scripture  has  made  one 
thing  certain  ;  that,  as  they  grew  in  years  they 
grew  in  wickedness,  despising  the  goodness  of 
God,  and  filling  up  life  with  impiety,  till  all  flesh 
had  corrupted  their  way,  and  become  fitted  only 
for  the  destruction  of  the  deluge.  Their  passions 
were  the  same  as  ours,  and  they  gave  them  their 
full  swing  of  indulgence ;  and  in  the  long  sweep 
of  nine  hundred  years  they  must  have  gathered 


a  prodigious  power,  and  raged  and  burned  like 
a  flaming  volcano. 

The  extreme  conciseness  and  paucity  of  detail 
in  the  sacred  history  concerning  the  antediluvians 
are  remarkable.  We  may  draw  from  them  a  salu- 
tary lesson.  Their  space  in  the  world's  existence 
amounted  almost  to  one  third  of  its  whole  being 
thus  far;  for,  of  the  sixty  centuries  that  bave 
nearly  elapsed,  from  creation's  dawn  to  the  pres- 
ent moment,  their  busy  transit  occupied  not  much 
less  than  two  thousand  years ;  and  of  the  four 
thousand  years  over  which  the  Bible  ranges  its 
sacred  perspective,  the  wickedness  of  the  antedi- 
luvians consumed  almost  half;  and  yet  notatwo 
hundreth  part  of  the  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures 
is  conceded  to  their  notice.  If  they  themselves 
could  have  drawn  up  for  future  times  even  an 
abridgement  of  all  that  they  expected  to  be 
known,  and  thought  worthy  to  be  known  in  re- 
gard to  them,  the  history  of  the  world  before  the 
flood  would  have  occupied  more  space  than  that 
of  all  ages  since  ;  and  we  should  have  had  an  an- 
tediluvian Bible,  emblazoned  all  over  with  the 
record  of  their  glorious  achievements ;  and  doubt- 
less it  would  have  been  a  most  striking,  a  most 
extraordinary  history.  All  elements  of  human 
greatness,  as  well  as  of  human  wickedness,  would 
have  entered  into  its  composition  ;  for  there  can 
scarcely  be  a  doubt  that  the  intellectual  faculties 
of  men  wrought  on  a  scale  as  gigantic  as  their 
passions,  so  that,  by  the  time  the  flood  came,  the 
earth  must  have  been  covered  with  memorials  of 
most  surpassing  grandeur.  The  very  first  born 
of  Adam,  the  murderer  of  his  brother,  when  the 
volcano  of  passion  had  a  little  burned  out,  and 
he  had  somewhat  recovered  from  the  tempest  of 
madness  and  remorse  of  conscience,  buUdeda  city, 
impressing  upon  its  stupendous  architecture  all 
the  energy  of  a  mind  of  gigantic  strength,  and  in- 
stead of  giving  it  a  name  that  might  have  con- 
nected it  sacredly  with  heaven,  indulged  a  mix- 
ture of  paternal  fondness  and  ambition,  and  called 
it  after  the  name  of  his  first-boi'n  son.  But  of  all 
the  grandeur  that  might  have  grown  in  time  to 
be  characteristic  of  the  first  city,  and  of  all  the 
countless  temples  and  palaces  whelmed  beneath 
the  deluge,  not  a  vestige  was  preserved  for  after 
admiration,  even  in  description  ;  and  of  all  monu- 
ments of  genius,  in  history',  poetry,  biography,  or 
whatever  other  shape  the  mind  of  antediluvian 
antiquity  might  choose  for  its  creations,  though 
there  may  have  been  libraries  larger  than 
that  of  all  the  Ptolemies,  it  is  doubtful  if  Noah 
deigned  to  take  one  solitary  leaf  into  the  ark,  to 
be  preserved  amidst  the  waste  of  waters.  Over 
all  achievements  of  fame,  all  wonders  of  genius, 


EARTH'S   OLDEST  SOIf. 


U9 


all  events  of  history,  in  -whicli  the  actora  antici- 
pated ail  immortulity  of  glory,  the  pen  of  inspira- 
tion draws  a  blank  ;  it  is  a  parcel  of  insignificant 
rubbish;  it  is  like  the  chaos  of  an  unformed 
■world ;  it  is  all  passed  over  in  forgetful n ess,  and 
the  record  of  their  life  is  comprehended  in  the 
merest  affirmation  of  mortality — he  died. 

Only  one  event  is  recorded  alike  of  them  all,  no 
matter  what  may  have  been  their  situation  in 
life,  whether  princes  of  the  earth,  surrounded 
■with  grandeur,  or  beggars  in  rags  upon  the  dung- 
hill.    They  may  have  amassed  wealth  beyond 
the  possibility  of  computation,  they  may  have 
enlarged  the  bounds  of  science,  and  filled  the 
world  with  tlie  fiime  of  their  discoveries,  the3- 
may  have  traveled  into  distant  lands,  and  brought 
back  volumes  of  knowledge,  they  may  have  pos- 
sessed an  eloquence  like  that  of  angels,  they  may 
have  written  poetry  worthy  the  abodes  of  Para- 
dise, they  may  have  founded  empires,  and  given 
systems  of  law  to  communities,  they  may  have 
been  poets,  orators,  statesmen,  philosophers,  they 
may  have  done  all  tliat  makes  the  name  of  mor- 
tals great,  they  may  have  been  the  Homers,  the 
Yirgils,  tlie  Newtous,  the  Bacons,  the  Shakspeares, 
the  Miltons  of  their  age  ; — but  -with  all  this,  the 
history  of  their  life  is  reduced  down  to  the  bald, 
unvaried  epitaph,  he  died.     There  ■would  be  all 
varieties  of  existence  among  them  as  among  us; 
some  whose  rank  and  connections  in  life  -would 
place  them  at  the  summit  of  society,  and  others 
■whose  powers  of  conversation  made  them  the  ad- 
mired in  every  circle,   and  others  whose  days 
■were  crowded  with  events  of  wonder,  and  others 
■whose  domestic  relations  were  full  of  beauty  and 
tenderness,  and  others  of  a  glowing  imagination, 
and  others  of  a  vast  reach  of  mind,  and  others  of 
angelic  symmetry  and  strength  of  body; — and 
yet  it  is  all  annihilated  in  that  one  simple  record, 
he  died. 

There  -would  be,  in  the  progress  of  antedilu- 
vian existence,  all  materials  that  ever  combine  to 
raise  the  record  of  a  man's  days  from  obscurity  and 
insignificance,  all  that  we  ever  look  upon  as  con- 
stituting fit  stuff  for  the  tissue  of  a  magnificent 
history,  or  a  grand  and  glowing  biography ; 
they  must  have  attained  all  that  in  the  world's 
view  is  worth  living  for;  they  must  have  accom- 
plished all  that  in  the  eye  of  ambition  constitutes 
a  ground  for  that  Immortality  of  fame  which  the 
fallen  mind  thirsts  after;  actions  to  draw  a 
world's  applause,  inventions  and  discoveries  of 
surprising  ingenuity,  systems  of  science  and  phi- 
losophy, all  forms  of  greatness  realized  ;— and 
yet  it  is  all  disposed  of  and  confined  within  the 
annals  of  two  words,  he  died. 


Once  in  the  flight  of  ages  passed, 
There  lived  a  man  : — and  who  was  he  ? 
— Mortal  I  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee. 

He  sa'w  whatever  thou  hast  seen, 
Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee  ; 
lie  was — whatever  thou  hast  been, 
He  is — whatever  thou  shall  be. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race. 
Their  ruins  since  the  world  began, 
Of  hira  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this,— TnKRK  bied  a.  man. 

No^w  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  read  a  more  af- 
fecting and   instructive   lesson   than   the   Holy 
Spirit  has  thus  transmitted  for  our  consideration, 
as  to  the  worthlessness  of  all  mere  mortal  gran- 
deur in  the  eye  of  God.     The  pleasure,  wealth, 
power,  knowledge,  glory,  of  ten  centuries  crowd- 
ed into  one  life,  with  all  the  changes  and  shows 
of  a  human  existence,  continued  through  a  period 
-which  with  us  suffices  for  the  transit  of  nearly 
thirty  generations,  are  just  as  unnoticed  as  if  they 
had  never  had  an  existence.     Except  so  far  as 
these    things   bear   upon    our    eternal   destiny, 
it    is    absolutely   regarded   as    of    no    account 
-whatever,  -whether   a  man   were  poor  or  rich, 
learned  or  unlearned,  lofty  or  lo-wly,  -wise  or 
ignorant,  -whether  he  -were  a  Newton  or  a  Hotten- 
tot, a  Milton  or  a  chimney-sweep,  a  Bacon  or  the 
inmate  of  a  mad-house,  an  Alexander  or  a  beggar 
in  the  street.     Considered  apart  from  the  fact  of 
his  probationary  state,  the  enjoyments  or  events 
in  the  life  of  the  most  distinguished  of  mortals, 
though  it  were  protracted  to  a  period  beyond  that 
of  the  oldest  antediluvian,  are  absolutely  of  no 
more  importance,  in  comparison  with  the  idea 
of  an  endless  duration,  than  the  movements  of  a 
new-born  babe  the  first  day  of  its  existence.    You 
might  compress  the  possession  of  all  the  royalty 
and  luxury  of  all  the  mouarchs  of  the  earth,  and 
all  the  glory  of  the  whole  world's  ■\varriora,  states- 
men and  nobility,  and  all  the  wisdom  and  fame 
of  all  the  world's  poets  and  philosophers,  into  the 
experience  of  one  mind,  and  the  period  of  one 
life,  and  yet,  in  itself,  and  for  itself,  without  re- 
ference  to  God,    it  is   nothing,   absolutely  not 
worth   naming;    considered   with  reference   to 
eternity,  it  dwindles  to  a  point ;  ■with  reference 
to  happiness,  it  is  gone  like  the  ticking  of  a  clock, 
and  is  of  no  more  value  than  the  pulsation  in  the 
veins  of  the  smallest  microscopic  insect.     Tlie 
only  thing  of  absolute  value  is  that  which  con- 
nects us  with  God,  and  makes  us  partake  of  his 
holiness;   all  things  else  are   baubles.     Crowns 
are  playthings,  dukedoms  and  dominions  of  no 
more  importance  than  the  grains  of  sand  that  go 
to  make  up  an  aut-hill. 


ON    THE   DEATH  OP    A   DEAR  FRIEND. 


B  T     MRS 


C  A  N  :■}  I  N  o 


i  know  that  thou  art  blest, 
Friend  of  ray  soul !  and  in  the  better  land  ; 
From  troubled  scenes  of  earth  I  know  His  hand 

Hath  led  thee  to  thy  rest 

Brief  was  thy  space  of  time, 
And  bright  the  beaming  of  thy  morning  sun  : 
Thy  conflict's  finished  and  thy  victory  w^on, 

Ere  yet  life's  noon  of  prime. 

And  thou  are  laid  to  rest 
In  the  sweet  summei-dawn,  where  early  flowers, 
Wakened  to  life  by  softly  falling  showers, 

Shall  bloom  above  thy  breast. 

And  winds  that  gently  sigh 
Thy  requiem  shall  breathe  at  close  of  day, 


And  joyous  birds  outpour  their  sweetest  lay 
Of  wild- wood  melody. 

But  0  my  301'rowing  soul, 
That  mourns  a  cherished  treasure  gone  for  aye ! 
Earth's  glorious  beauty  fades  as  day  by  day 

Life  hastens  to  its  goal. 

No  more  will  sun  or  stars, 
Or  silvery  moon  shine  as  in  other  days ; 
Death's  chilling  shadow  dims  their  purest  rays- 

Their  holy  radiance  mars. 

But  toward  the  "  better  land" 
Constant  my  longing  heart  shall  follow  thee ; 
And  to  its  blessedness  thou'lt  welcome  me, 

"When  falls  life's  latest  sand. 
Stochhridge,  Mass.,  June  ith,  1851. 


THE   PRESENCE   OF  GOD 


til  heivenly  climes,  where  harmonies 
Of  holy  joy  are  heard  alone, 

Ahriglit,  unnumber'd  angel  throng 
Surround  with  harps  the  throne  j 

Or  float,  from  glowing  star  to  star, 

"Without  a  bound,  without  a  bar. 

In  glory  now— then  far  away, 
Amid  the  measureless-^the  vast  j 

'Where  burn  ths  ceaseless  wheels  of  day. 
Where  howls  the  endless  blast. 

Where  all  is  darlc,  or  all  is  bright, 

God's  presence  ever  fills  their  sight. 

Beyond  that  presence  ever  near, 
Their  swiftest  wing  can  never  fly  ; 

Unheard,  it  meets  the  spirit  ear. 
Unseen,  the  spirit  eye  ; 

Where  sounds  of  life  no  whisper  girC, 

In  present  Deity  they  live. 


God  is  where'er  a  drop  of  dew- 
Hangs  trembling  on  the  harebell's  leafj 

Where  floats  a  cloud  amid  the  blue, 
"Where  days  are  bright  or  brief ; 

Where  shines  the  star  and  glows  the  air 

With  silent  sunlight,  God  is  there. 

And  oh  I  the  blissful  thought  that  Se 
Whose  presence  fills  the  wondrous  dome 

Of  measureless  infinity, 
Should  love  to  fix  his  home. 

His  dearest  dwelling-place,  within 

The  humble  heart  that  sighs  for  sin. 

The  heart  that  like  the  sunflower  turns 
To  Him  at  morn— at  noon-^at  eve-^ 

With  silent  love  to  Jesus  bums. 
And  longs,  for  Him,  to  leave 

The  joys  of  earth— to  love  him  more, 

And  sound  his  praise  on  Canaan's  shore. 


€\)t  Cili!  36H13. 


S^WG  BT  MRS.  L.  A.  JONES. 


MUSIC   BY  LYDIA  B.    SMITH. 


m^^E^^^^ 


Allegretto  Scherzando.  -p-  ,  ^^—    *«5i      # 


:ibz=iz:#=z~^ 


g^ggllrjfe^fE 


'to  the  trmbling  Li-ly    bells,  Beneath  their  leaves  so  green, 
all  my  changeful  moods  they  seem,  An  e-cho  still  to        tma, 


^  ».  Ik  ^  N  


Full    many  a      merry 
Their  voi  -  ces  haunt  me 


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fai-ry  dwells,  By    mor-tal    eyes    un  -  seen  ;      „^";^  y/^  .^;;"'^„'^„^;^^^^ 

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THE    LILT    BELLS. 


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WILLIAM   B    SPRAGUE.  D    D. 


''I   WOULD    NOT    LIVE    ALWAY." 


BT     REV.     DR.     SPRAQUE 


It  is,  I  suppose,  universally  admitted  that  the 
love  of  life  is  natural  to  man  ;  and  there  are  cer- 
tainly many  things  connected  with  the  present 
state  of  existence  to  render  life  desirable.  The 
world  in  which  we  dwell  has  been  admirably 
fitted  up  for  our  convenience  and  comfort ;  and 
there  are  good  gifts  constantly  coming  down 
from  the  Father  of  mercies,  to  sustain  and  cheer 
us  during  our  residence  here.  There  are  oppor- 
tunities here  for  doing  good ;  for  atlministering 
relief  to  the  needy  and  wretched  ;  for  aiding  the 
cause  of  truth  and  piety  ;  and  thus  glorifying 
God  in  our  body  and  spirit.  There  are  the  means 
of  working  out  our  own  salvation ;  of  laying  up 
treasure  in  heaven  that  will  satisfy  and  endure ; 
and  even  the  afflictions  of  the  present  become  a 
furnace  in  which  the  soul  is  prepared  to  shine 
with  increasing  beauty  and  brightness  in  the  fu- 
ture. And  there  are  some  of  the  Christian  graces, 
for  the  development  of  whicii  this  is  the  only 
theatre ;  for  when  injury  ceases,  there  will  be  no 
occasion  for  forgiveness ;  and  when  suffering 
ceases,  there  will  be  no  demand  for  patience. 
Indeed,  there  is  good  reason  why  every  individual 
should  be  thankful  for  his  present  existence: 
even  though  he  perverts  it  to  his  eternal  ruin, 
yet  the  hours  of  life  are  golden  hours  ;  they  are 
given  to  be  a  blessing,  and  praise  is  due  to  Him 
who  bestows  them. 

I  know,  that  when  the  old  man  is  put  off  and 
the  new  man  put  on,  there  is  a  sense  in  wliich 
the  Boul  is  brought  out  of  darkness  into  marvel- 
ous light.  The  mind  takes  far  more  distinct 
and  comprehensive  views  of  divine  truth  than  it 
ever  did  before  :  it  has  a  spiritual  discernment 
imparted  to  it,  by  means  of  which  what  had  be- 
fore seemed  faint  and  shadowy,  becomes  substance 
and  life.  But  even  tiiat  marvelous  light  into 
which  the  new-born  soul  enters  when  he  is  de- 
livered from  the  blindness  of  spiritual  death  is 
itself  darkness,  when  compared  with  the  radiant 
manifestations  of  Jehovah's  glory  in  the  upper 
world.  Here  the  Christian,  in  his  best  state, 
sees  through  a  glass  darkly.  How  very  little 
does  he  know  of  the  plan  of  God's  operations ! 
How  he  is  confounded  at  almost  every  step  by 


the  occurrence  of  events  whose  meaning  he  is 
utterly  unable  to  explain  !  How  many  things, 
after  his  best  efforts  to  comprehend  them,  he  is 
obliged  to  resolve  into  God's  mysterious  and  un- 
fathomable sovereignty  !  And  in  his  contempla- 
tions of  God's  truth,  as  it  is  revealed  in  his  Word, 
how  frequently  is  he  perplexed  with  doubt  in 
respect  to  the  actual  meaning  of  the  Spirit;  and 
when  he  attempt?  to  launch  out  at  all  beyond  the 
Revelation,  how  quickly  does  he  find  himself 
sinking  in  a  gulf  of  conjecture  and  uncertainty  ! 
How  humbling  to  the  pride  of  the  intellect,  how 
indicative  of  the  narrowness  of  its  conceptions,  to 
find  himself  obliged  to  receive  different  truths. 
which  he  knows  must  be  consistent  with  each 
other,  which  yet  he  is  perfectly  inadequate  to  re- 
concile ;  tocatchjust  an  indistinct  glance  of  some 
great  field  of  truth,  and  then  perhaps  find  his 
vision  immediately  obstructed  by  intervening 
clouds  !  But  then  how  delightful  the  contrast 
when  he  reaches  heaven  !  There,  many  a  dark 
page  in  the  history  of  God's  dispensations  on 
earth  will  be  illumined  by  a  clear  and  satisfying 
light.  There  he  will  know  why  he  had  anguish 
when  he  longed  for  rest ;  why  his  plans  were  de- 
feated by  which  he  would  fain  have  glorified  God  ; 
why  Zion  was  left  so  long  to  mourn,  and  the 
ch.-iriot- wheels  of  her  King  were  so  slow  in  their 
approach,  when  God's  people  were  upon  tlieir 
knees  praying  and  watching  for  the  dawn  of  a 
brighter  day.  And  the  mysteries  of  Redemption 
— O,  how  they  will  unfold  to  his  deliglited  eye ; 
how  the  great  and  holy  truths  which  he  knew  so 
imperfectly  here  will  burst  upon  him  in  their 
full  brightness,  and  in  the  harmony  of  perfect 
proportions !  Tliere,  there  will  be  no  uncertainty, 
no  confusion,  no  darkness  at  all.  This  seeing 
through  a  glass  darkly  is  the  business  of  earth  ; 
seeing  face  to  face  will  be  the  business  of  heaven. 
There  the  vision  will  be  perfect ;  anitheSunof 
the  moral  universe  will  shine  with  immortal 
splendor. 

I  bless  God  for  all  the  light  which  he  gives 
me  now ;  but  I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I 
have  the  assurance  that  a  brighter  light  will 
shine  hereafter.     I  love  to  bend  over  the  mys- 


154 


I   WOULD   NOT  LIVE   ALWAY." 


teries  of  Providence  and  the  mysteries  of  Redemp- 
tion ;  and  sometimes  a  field  of  glory  opens  sud- 
denly upon  me  where  thick  darkness  had  always 
brooded  before  ;  but  I  own  that  I  have  my  eye 
and  my  heart  upon  a  world  where  I  hope  to  live 
for  ever  amidst  the  brighter  beams  of  immortal 
truth.  I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  desire 
to  get  rid  of  this  painful  ignorance  and  doubt 
which  now  oppress  me  ;  because  I  would  fain  be- 
hold mj  God  as  he  is,  and  see  light  in  his  light. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  would  not 
always  be  half  a  sinner  and  half  a  saint.  I  hate 
this  body  of  sin  and  death,  and  in  God's  best  time 
I  would  be  glad  to  throw  it  down.  I  long  to  be 
delivered  from  these  wandering  thoughts ;  from 
these  expressions  of  devotion  into  which  my  cold 
and  reluctant  heart  will  not  throw  itself;  from 
this  feebleness  and  inconstancy  of  effort  in  doing 
the  will  of  Him  who  hath  died  for  me.  I  would 
be  conversant  only  with  holy  objects  ;  I  would 
be  the  subject  only  of  holy  exercises ;  I  would  be 
engaged  only  in  holy  employments ;  and  I  would 
not  live  alway,  because  then  this  sweetest,  noblest 
desire  of  my  heart  could  never  be  fulfilled. 

Again :  ever  since  sin  entered  to  blight  the 
beauty  of  Jehovah's  works,  the  human  body  has 
been  characterized  by  a  tendency  to  decay. 
Look  at  the  man  writhing  in  bodily  anguish ; 
bending  under  decrepitude ;  fainting  from  bodily 
exhaustion  ;  and  say  whether  sin  has  not  mixed 
up  its  poison  in  the  very  blood  that  courses 
through  our  veins  ?  And  if  the  body  is  weak,  so 
is  the  mind  also.  It  is  conscious,  indeed,  of  hav- 
ing within  itself  a  principle  of  greatness  ;  it  is 
sometimes  surprised  by  the  exercise  of  its  own 
faculties;  but  after  all,  many  of  its  operations  are 
exceedingly  feeble  and  unsatisfying.  And  there 
is  a  proportional  weakness  in  human  virtue;  for 
how  frequently  is  virtue  conquered  and  carried 
away  captive  in  the  war  with  temptation  ! 

Since  then  the  Christian,  while  he  remains  here, 
is  comparatively  feeble  in  his  whole  nature,  how 
reasonable  that  he  should  aspire  to  a  state  in 
which  he  shall  exchange  his  present  imbecility  for 
enduring  and  ever-growing  strength!  At  the 
threshold  of  heaven  he  will  drop  this  crazy,  cor- 
ruptible, inglorious  body,  and  ere  long  will  re- 
ceive in  its  place  a  body  endued  with  undecaying 
vigor,  and  clothed  with  unfading  beauty,  a  body 
which  may  mock  at  the  power  of  death  ;  and 
which  can  move  as  if  upon  the  lighting  to  execute 
God's  high  commissions  in  other  worlds.  And 
the  intellect— Oh,  how  it  will  brighten  and  ex- 
pand ;  how  it  will  rise  to  that  which  is  lofty,  and 
sink  into  that  which  is  profound,  and  never  tire 
either  in  the  sublimity  of  its  excursions  or  the 
depth  of  its  researches  !   And  the  moral  facultioa 


— with  what  incalculable  energy  will  they  ope- 
rate, when  God's  Spirit  has  given  them  a  perfect 
direction,  and  there  is  all  the  beauty  and  glory  of 
the  third  heavens  to  call  them  into  exercise !  I 
ask  again,  is  it  not  reasonable  that  the  Christian 
should  hail  the  day  when  he  shall  be  taken  up  to 
that  region  of  immortal  strength  ? 

I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  do  not  wish 
always  to  be  an  heir  to  these  clustering  infirmi- 
ties of  mortality.  I  would  bear  patiently  the 
pains,  the  groans,  the  tossings,  to  which  this  poor 
body  is  subjected  ;  but  I  would  rather  be  beyond 
their  reach,  and  wear  a  body  that  could  bid  de- 
fiance to  disease  ;  that  could  shine  with  an  angel's 
beauty,  and  move  with  an  angel's  strength.  I 
would  not  complain  of  the  feebleness  of  my  men- 
tal operations  ;  and  yet  I  would  hail  with  grati- 
tude the  expansion  of  these  powers  into  some- 
thing yet  greater  and  brighter:  1  would  prefer 
the  noble  thoughts  of  glorified  manhood,  to  the 
narrow  conceptions  of  this  infancy  of  my  existence. 
I  would  be  thankful  for  what  God  has  made  me  : 
and  humble  for  what  I  have  made  myself ;  but  I 
would  wait  in  exulting  hope  of  a  complete  renova- 
tion of  my  nature,  in  which  I  shall  have  strength 
imparted  to  me  to  bear  an  eternal  weight  of  glory. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  cannot  bear 
the  sound  of  dying  groans  ;  because  I  instinctive- 
ly shrink  back  from  the  bedside  where  my  be- 
loved friend  is  going  through  with  his  last  agonies 
I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  choose  stability 
rather  than  vicissitude  ;  and  even  when  my  hopes 
of  earthly  good  are  the  brightest,  I  never  know 
but  that  it  is  the  harbinger  of  dire  eclipse.  I 
would  not  live  alway,  because  my  spirit  is  offend- 
ed by  the  scenes  of  discord  and  contention  which 
prevail  around  me  ; — scenes  in  which  I  am  com- 
pelled to  mingle,  and  which,  perhaps,  in  my 
weakness  I  may  be  left  to  promote.  I  would 
not  live  alway,  because  I  see  in  the  distance  a 
region  that  is  free  from  storms; — a  region  in 
which  not  even  a  cloud  lowers  ;  and  I  would 
breathe  that  balmy  atmosphere  :  I  would  walk 
beneath  the  very  throne  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  : 
1  would  be  able  to  look  around  me,  to  look 
before  me,  and  reflect  that  there  is  not  an  element 
of  tempest  in  all  that  portion  of  God's  dominions 
in  which  I  am  to  have  my  everlasting  home. 

In  this  mixed  state  of  being,  the  best  men  are 
frequently  brought  into  contact  with  the  bad ; 
nay,  even  with  the  worst.  It  sometimes  happens 
that  the  Christian  has  his  lot  cast  in  a  family, 
one  or  more  of  whose  members  is  openly  vicious 
and  profane ;  and  sometimes  even  the  Christian 
parent  is  compelled  to  the  reflection  that  his  own 
child,  whom  he  meets  every  day  in  the  discharge 
of  parental  oflSces,  is  a  blasphemer  or  a  profligate. 


"I  WOULD   NOT   LIVE    ALWAY. 


155 


But  in  addition  to  this,  even  the  fellowship  of 
Christians  in  this  world  is  a  fellowship  of  miser- 
ably imperfect  men.  What  Christian  has  not  had 
his  heart  wounded  by  the  inconsideration,  the 
wickedness,  it  may  be  the  absolute  treachery,  of 
some  one  who  has  claimed  to  be  acknowledged 
as  a  brother  in  Christ?  What  Christian  has 
not  sometimes  been  ready  to  ask,  while  he  has 
wept  over  the  spectacle  of  a  religious  community 
arming  themselves  witli  the  weapons  of  carnal 
warfare,  "  Is  there  faith  on  the  earth  ?"  What 
Christian  but  has  sometimes  felt  the  need  of 
sympathy  and  co-operation,  when  it  has  been 
withheld  ;  and  when  he  would  fain  have  opened 
his  heart  to  the  invigorating  influence  of  a  godly, 
fraternal  fellowship,  has  found  himself  well  nigh 
chilled  in  the  freezing  atmosphere  of  indifference 
and  formality  ? 

Not  so  in  the  world  which  Christian  faith  an- 
ticipates. There  all  will  be  bound  together  in 
the  cords  of  love;  all  will  be  helpers  together  of 
each  other's  joy.  All— and  who  will  they  be  ? 
First,  all  the  ransomed  out  of  every  nation,  and 
kindred,  and  tongue,  and  people.  Every  patriarch 
every  prophet,  every  apostle,  every  martyr 
every  saint  of  every  age,  and  clime,  and  condition, 
will  be  there.  Next,  there  will  be  the  native  in- 
habitants of  heaven,  who  have  always  been  loyal 
to  their  King:  they  will  continue  to  be,  as  they 
ever  have  been,  at  home  on  the  fields  of  immor- 
tality. Jesus,  the  dying  Lamb,  the  God  and  Hope 
of  the  world,  the  enthroned  and  all-gracious 
Saviour,  will  be  there,  in  mild  and  heavenly 
majesty  ;  carrying  forward  the  vast  purposes  of 
his  mediatorial  reign,  and  pouring  forth  endless 
benedictions  over  the  whole  host  of  the  glorified. 
This  vast  assembly  will  constitute  one  glorious 
fraternity  of  exalted  minds.  And  is  it  any  wonder 
that  the  Ciiristian  should  desire  to  be  among 
them  ?  Is  it  strange  that,  when  rivers  of  waters 
run  down  his  eyes  because  men  keep  not  God's 
law ;  when  his  heart  bleeds  from  wounds  that 
have  been  inflicted  by  hands  with  which  his  own 
had  been  joined  in  the  bond  of  covenant  engage- 
ments,— is  it  strange,  I  ask,  that  he  should  be 
more  than  willing,  in  God's  best  time,  to  join  the 
eternal  fellowship  of  iieaven  ? 

I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  would  escape 
from  a  companionship  with  those  who  despise  my 
Redeemer  and  his  salvation;  because  I  do  not 
wish  my  ear  to  be  always  accustomed  to  sounds 


of  blasphemy,  or  mine  eye  to  spectacles  of  pro- 
fligacy and  crime.  I  would  not  live  alway,  be- 
cause even  the  communion  of  saints  on  earth  is 
imperfect  and  often  embittered ;  and  I  never 
know  what  either  I  or  those  with  whom  I  am  as- 
sociated  may  be  left  to  do,  to  destroy  each  other's 
peace.  I  would  not  live  alway,  because  I  expect 
to  meet  in  heaven  those  Christian  friends  whom 
I  love  below,  purified  from  their  dross,  and  ad- 
vanced to  a  state  of  absolute  perfection  ;  because 
my  bosom  burns  with  a  desire  to  mingle  with  tlie 
great  and  the  good  of  other  ages;  because  I 
would  fain  see  Abraham,  and  Moses,  and  Paul, 
face  to  face  ;  because  I  would  hear  tlie  martyrs 
tell  with  their  own  lips  the  story  of  their  suffer- 
ings and  their  triumphs,  and  would  join  them  in 
a  tribute  of  thanksgiving  for  all-sustaining  and 
all-conquering  grace.  No;  I  would  not  live  aV 
way,  because  the  society  of  heaven  is  better  than 
the  society  of  earth.  I  had  rather  see  my  Re- 
deemer as  he  is,  and  gaze  upon  his  unveiled  glory, 
than  to  hold  communion  even  with  Him  through 
the  channel  of  his  ordinances. 

But  I  hear  some  one  saying,  "  There  is  one  thing 
which  perhaps  you  have  forgotten  :  tliere  is  a 
dark  boundary — not  a  mountain,  but  a  flood,  that 
lies  between  earth  and  heaven  ;  and  that  is  to  be 
passed  before  the  Christian  conqueror  can  be 
crowned."  No,  I  have  not  forgotten  that :  I  stand 
upon  an  eminence  now,  with  that  flood  rolling 
and  raging  beneath  my  feet ;  and  even  here  I  re- 
peat, I  would  not  live  alway.  For  I  know  that 
my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  1  rely  upon  him  to  bear 
me  over ;  and  if  I  may  only  rest  upon  his  arm,  I 
can  walk  firmly,  though  the  tempest  howls  above, 
and  the  waters  roar  around.  No,  I  would  not 
live  alway. — Rise,  ye  dark  and  stormy  billows,  to 
frighten  my  poor  soul,  as  much  as  ye  will :  Rise, 
ye  fiends  of  darkness,  and  make  your  last  des- 
perate effort  to  terrify  and  overwiielm  ;  and  in 
the  courage  of  faitli  I  dare  say  even  to  you,  I 
would  not  live  alway. 

"  Jesus,  the  vision  of  thy  face 
Hath  overpowering  charms  ; 
Scarce  shall  I  feel  death's  cold  embrace. 
If  Christ  be  in  my  arms. 

"  Then,  when  ye  hear  my  heartstrings  break, 
How  sweet  the  minutes  roll. 
A  mortal  paleness  on  my  cheek. 
And  glory  in  my  soul !" 


PERSONAL   CHAKACTER  OF  DR.    CHALMERS.* 


The  new  volume  of  the  Life  of  Dr.  Chalmers 
embraces  his  professorial  appointments  in  St. 
Andrew's  and  Edinburgh,  and  his  connection  with 
the  Veto  and  Church  extension  movements  in  the 
Scottish  Establishment ;  and  includes  numerous 
notices  of  and  correspondence  with  the  notables 
of  the  period. 

Chabneis  was  appointed  to  the  chair  of  Moral 
Philosophy  in  the  University  of  St.  Andrew's  in 
1823,  and,  exhausted  as  he  was  by  his  super- 
human labors  in  Glasgow,  the  change  from  its 
noisy  thoroughfares  to  the  grassy  streets  of  the 
once  archiepiscopal  city  must  have  been  grateful 
in  the  extreme.  He  shook  the  dust  from  the  chair 
to  which  he  was  appointed,  and  entered  on  his 
duties  with  characteristic  energy  and  zeal.  Al- 
though from  "  hand  to  mouth,"  to  use  his  own 
phrase,  in  the  preparation  of  his  lectures,  the 
students  (whose  numbers  he  doubled)  were  enrap- 
tured with  his  eloquence,  and  gave  vent  to  their 
satisfaction  by  very  unacademic  applause ;  and 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  session  they  threatened 
a  presentation  of  plate.  "Whilst  prohibiting  the 
latter  proceeding,  the  professor  dealt  the  follow- 
ing blow  against 

AMATEUR   STUDENTS. 

There  is  one  topic  more  which  I  shall  advert  to,  and  that 
is,  to  certain  liberties  which  some  very  few  of  my  visitors 
have  indulged  in  amid  the  general  propriety  that  has  char- 
acterized their  attendance.  I  acquit  my  stated  attendants, 
indeed,  from  the  charge  altogether  ;  but  there  have  been 
occasional  hearers  who,  by  coming  in  late,  have  inflicted  a 
sore  annoyance  on  the  business  of  the  class.  It  is  too  late 
now  to  set  up  any  practical  check  against  an  inroad  so  un- 
seemly, but  I  hold  it  of  importance  to  the  cause  of  academic 
discipline,  that  even  now  I  should  make  averment  of  the  prin- 
ciple, that  not  one  freedom  can  be  tolerated  in  a  visitor,  which 
ought  not  also  to  be  permitted  to  any  of  the  regular  students. 

And  on  the  same  ground,  gentlemen,  I  must  allude  to  the 
further  indecorum  of  yesterday.  It  is  not  of  a  certain  ob- 
streporousness  of  yours  that  I  now  speak,  against  which 
I  have  already  made  my  remonstrances  during  the  progress 
of  our  course,  and  which  perhaps,  if  permissible  at  all, 
might,  by  way  of  easing  the  restraint  under  which  you  have 
been  laid,  be  humored  with  one  tremendous  bellow  at  the 
termination  of  it.  But  what  I  speak  of  is  the  presence  of 
a  certain  noisy  admirer,  who  added  his  testimony  to  the 
general  voice,  and  whose  presence  within  these  walls  was 
so  monstrously  out  of  keeping  with  the  character  and  busi- 
ness of  a  place  of  literature.  The  bringing  in  of  that  dog 
was  a  great  breach  of  all  academic  propriety.  I  dared  not 
trust  myself  at  the  time  with  the  utterance  of  the  indigna- 
tion that  I  then  actually  felt,  but  it  might  be  lowering  your 

*  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Thomas  Chalmers,  D.D.,  LL.D. 
Vol.  III. 


sense  of  those  decencies  that  belong  to  a  university,  were  I 
to  pass  it  unnoticed  now.  A  visit  from  the  first  nobleman 
of  the  land  were  disgraceful  to  us  all,  if  it  turned  out  to  be 
a  visit  from  the  nobleman  and  his  dog. — P.  10. 

The  mention  of  student  life  carries  us  to  a  story 
which  occurred  in  Edinburgh  long  after  Chalmers 
had  left  St.  Andrew's.     It  refers  to 

THE   TROUBLES    OF  A   DENTIST. 

The  pedestrian  approbation  accompanied  Chalmers 
through  the  whole  of  his  academical  career.  After  the  dis- 
ruption of  the  Church,  temporary  premises  were  taken  for 
the  classes  in  connection  with  the  new  body.  These  prem- 
ises were  immediately  adjoining  to  the  house  of  an  emi- 
nent dentist,  a  thin  partition  wall  dividing  the  room  in  which 
he  operated  upon  his  patients  from  that  in  which  Dr.  Chal- 
mers lectured  to  his  class.  The  rutling  of  the  one  room 
penetrated  into  the  other,  and  disturbed  at  times  its  delicate 
and  nervous  operations.  Mr.  N.  at  last,  and  in  the  gentlest 
terms,  complained  to  Dr.  Chalmers,  asking  him  whether 
he  could  not  induce  his  students  to  abate  the  vehemence  of 
their  applause.  As  Dr.  Chalmers  entered  his  class  room  on 
the  day  after  that  on  which  this  complaint  was  made,  a 
suppressed  smile  lurked  in  his  expressive  countenance.  He 
rose,  told  the  students  of  his  interview  with  Mr.  N.,  ajid, 
after  requesting  that  the  offence  should  not  be  repeated, 
warned  them  most  significantly  against  annoying  or  pro- 
voking a  gentleman  who  was  soianoh  in  t/ietnoutks  of  th£ 
public— T.  60. 

From  1734  up  to  the  time  of  Chalmer's  induc- 
tion, the  professors  had  been  wont  to  distribute 
amongst  themselves  certain  surplus  funds,  desig- 
nated Candlemas  dividends  ;  the  "  Candlemas 
money  amounted  to  about  a  third  of  his  income, 
but,  having  doubts  as  to  the  legality  of  its  appro- 
priation, he  declined  receiving  his  share  during 
the  whole  time  of  his  residence  there.  In  1828, 
when  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  Edinburgh, 
and  when  the  untouched  sum  at  his  credit  amount- 
ed to  upwards  of  VOO/.,  he  received  from  the 
Royal  Commissioners  appointed  to  visit  the 
Scotch  colleges  a  communication  stating  "  that, 
under  all  the  circumstances,  there  is  no  good  rea- 
son why  Dr.  Chalmers,  who  has  now  ceased  to 
be  a  professor,  should  not  receive  and  accept  of 
the  sums  so  due  to  him  ;"  and  on  the  faith  of  this 
declaration  he  took  the  money.  The  Commis- 
sioners, however,  published  their  report  without 
alluding  to  the  part  which  Chalmers  had  acted, 
and  gravely  averred  that  "the  principals  and 
professors  appear  to  have  made  these  appropria- 
tions without  any  authority."  And  this  was  the 
occasion  of  Chalmer's  coming  before  the  public 
with  a  spirited  pamphlet,  explanatory  of  his 
position  in  the  matter. 


PERSONAL   CHARACTER   OF   DR.    CHALMERS. 


167 


Although  dissatisfied  with  the  state  of  afifairs 
in  St.  Andrew's,  Chalmers  declined  no  less  than 
three  offers  of  removal.  One  was  the  chair  of 
Moral  Philosophy  in  the  London  University,  ten- 
dered through  the  recomraeudation  of  Lord 
Brougham  ;  and  tlie  other  two  were  the  livings 
of  St.  Cuthbert'?,  Edinburgh,  and  the  West  Par- 
ish, Greenock,  the  latter  being  the  richest  living 
in  Scotland.  Tlie  first  was  the  offer  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Lansdowne,  the  second  that  of  the  patron, 
Sir  M.  S.  Stewart ;  and  he  grounded  his  declina- 
tions on  his  preference  for  academic  labor. 

During  his  connection  with  St.  Andrew's  he  made 
occasional  preaching-excursions  ;  and  to  two  of 
these  we  shall  now  advert.  Here  is  an  admirable 
sketch  of 

THE   WEARINESS    OF    OVER-CIVILITT. 

Miss never  asks  the  same  thing  twice  of  me,  but  she 

raalces  up  for  this  hy  the  exceeding  multitude  of  these 
things  :  such  as,  if  ray  tea  is  right ;  if  I  would  like  more 
sugar;  if  I  take  cream;  if  I  am  fond  of  little  or  much 
cream ;  if  I  would  take  butter  to  my  cake ;  when  I  take 
to  loaf,  if  I  take  butter  to  my  white  bread  ;  if  I  move  from 
one  part  of  the  room  to  another,  whether  I  would  not  like 
to  sit  on  the  sofa ;  after  I  have  sat  there,  whether  I  would 
like  to  stretch  out  my  legs  upon  it ;  after  I  have  dons  that, 
whether  I  would  let  her  wheel  it  nearer  the  fire ;  when  I 
move  to  my  bedroom,  whether  the  fire  is  right,  whether  I 
would  like  the  blinds  wound  up,  &c.,  &c.  She  at  the  same 
time  most  religiously  abstains  from  repetitions,  but  to  reply 
even  once  to  her  indefinite  number  of  proposals  is  fatigue 
enough,  I  can  assure  you ;  nor  is  the  fatigue  at  all  alle- 
viated when,  instead  of  coming  fortli  a  second  time  with 
each,  she  comes  forth  with  a  most  vehement  asseveration, 
accompanied  by  uplifted  hands,  that  she  will  let  me  do  as 
I  like,  that  she  will  not  interfere,  that  I  shall  have  liberty 
in  her  house  ;  and  when  I  said  that  I  behoved  me  to  make 
calls  immediately  after  dinner,  she  declared  that  I  would 
have  leave  to  go  away  with  my  dinner  in  my  mouth,  if  I  so 
chose.  I  have  got  the  better  of  all  this  by  downright  laughing, 
for  I  verily  think  now  that  the  case  is  altogether  de.«perate- 

Chalmers  had  agreed  to  preach  in  behalf  of 
a  Sunday-school  in  Stockport,  and,  on  proceeding 
thither,  ascertained  that  he  was  only  one  item  in 
a  series  of  entertainments.  His  journal  account 
of  the  orchestral  interview  is  amusing. 

Sunilay. — Sadly  annoyed  all  last  night  with  their  quack- 
ish  advertisement.  I  visited  the  school  at  one,  and  the 
sermon  was  to  begin  at  half-past  five.  Could  see  a  certain 
hard  and  ungracious  reception  of  me,  perhaps  from  the 
consciousness  of  something  wrong  on  their  part.  Mr.  M., 
my  correspondent,  did  not  appear  for  some  time,  and  when 
he  did,  there  was  a  blush  in  his  countenance  and  a  tremu- 
lousness  in  his  voice.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  managers,  and 
the  stairs  to  the  different  rooms  of  their  immense  fabric 
were  crowded  with  scholars.  I  asked  what  they  were 
about ;  and,  wiih  some  hesitation  and  difficulty,  they  told 
me  they  had  been  practising  for  the  music  of  this  evening. 
When  I  went  to  the  great  preaching-hall,  I  found  that  there 
was  just  this  practising  before  an  immense  assemblage  ; 
on  which  I  called  out,  in  the  distinct  hearing  of  those  about 
me,  that  there  was  an  air  of  charlatanry  about  the  whole 
affair,  and  that  I  did  not  like  it  at  all.  I  would  stay  no 
longer  in  that  place,  and  went  along  with  them  to  the 


committee-room,  where  there  were  about  twenty  managers 
and  others.  I  said  that  I  had  come  from  a  great  distance 
on  their  account,  and  had  therefore  purchased  the  privilege 
of  telling  them  plain  things  ;  that  they  should  have  con- 
sulted me  ere  they  had  made  their  arrangements ;  that  I 
was  quite  revolted  by  the  quackery  of  their  advertisement ; 
tliat  they  had  made  me  feel  myself  to  be  one  of  the  per- 
formers in  a  theatrical  exhibition  ;  that  what  they  liad 
done  stood  in  the  same  relation  to  what  they  ought  to  have 
done,  that  an  advertisement  of  Dr.  Solomon's  did  to  the 
respectable  doings  of  the  regular  faculty,  &o.,  &c.  1  was 
firm,  and  mild  withal — they  confused  and  awkward,  and 
in  ditliculties.  I  said,  that  still  I  would  preach,  but  that  I 
thought  it  right  to  state  what  1  felt.  On  the  other  question 
of  the  urgency,  and  the  pleading  a  promissory  obligation 

on  my  part,  I  have  as  yet  had  no  reckoning I 

got  a  second  letter  from  a  minister  on  the  subject  of  the  in- 
decent exhibition  of  Stockport.  I  had  got  one  the  night 
before  from  another  minister  on  the  same  subject.  It  seems 
that  many  serious  people  here  are  scandalized  at  it,  and 
that  many  eyes  are  fixed  upon  my  conduct  in  regard  to  it. 
I  sent  for  Mr.  M.,  that  I  might  hold  conversatian  with  him. 
Mr.  M.  sent  back  word  that  he  could  not  possibly  come  ; 
and  why?  becau.se  he  was  presiding  at  a  dinner  given  be- 
fore sermon  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  orchestra,  and  he  was 
just  in  the  middle  of  a  speech  to  them  when  my  message 
came.  On  this,  Mr.  Marsland  and  Mr.  Grant  walked  down 
to  Stockport,  and  told  Mr.  M.  of  my  difficulties  and  wishes ; 
that  I  would  not  comply  with  their  arrangement  until  it 
was  altered.  They  wished  my  prayers  and  sermon  to  ba 
mixed  up  with  their  music,  me  all  the  while  in  the  pulpit. 
I  said,  that  I  would  not  be  present  at  their  music  at  all ; 
that  my  service  should  be  separated  altogether  from  their 
entertainment;*  that  I  should  pray,  preach,  and  pray 
again  in  continuo— not  entering  the  pulpit  till  the  moment 
of  my  beginning,  and  retiring  from  it  so  soon  as  I  should 
have  ended.  The  gentlemen  had  their  interview  with  Mr. 
M.,  and  he  was  very  glad  to  comply  I  dined  at  half-past 
two,  retired  for  an  hour  to  prepare,  drank  coffee  after  five. 
The  two  gentlemen  walked  before,  to  be  at  the  music.  The 
two  ladies  went  down  with  me  in  the  carriage  at  six.  "Will 
you  believe  it  ?  an  orchestra  of  at  least  one  hundred  people, 
three  rows  of  female  singers,  in  which  were  two  professional 
female  singers,  so  many  professional  male  singers,  a  num- 
ber of  amateurs  :  and  I  now  offer  you  a  list  of  the  instru- 
ments, so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  ascertain  them — one 
pair  of  bass  drums,  two  trumpets,  bassoon,  organ,  serpents, 
violins  without  number,  violoncellos,  bass  viols,  llutes,  haut- 
boys. I  stopped  in  the  minister's  room  till  it  was  over.  Went 
to  the  pulpit— prayed,  preached,  retired  during  the  time  of 
the  collection,  and  again  prayed.  Before  I  left  my  own 
private  room  they  fell-to  again  with  most  tremendous  fury, 
and  the  likest  thing  to  it  which  I  recollect  is  a  great  mili- 
tary band  on  the  Castlehill  of  Edinburgh.  1  went  up  with 
the  ladies  again  in  the  carriage.  They  were  far  franker 
and  pleasanter  than  before.  Supped  after  Mr.  Marsland's 
return.  lie  told  me  that  the  collection  was  39sl  Went 
to  bed  between  eleven  and  twelve.  I  forgot  to  say  that  the 
number  of  my  hearers  was  3..JO0. 

Monday.— I  am  told  that  the  Stockport  people,  suspicious 
of  my  dislike  to  exhibitions,  blazoned  and  advertised  much 
less  than  they  would  have  done :  and  the  interpretation 
"iven  by  some  to  this  is,  lest  it  should  meet  my  observation 


•  Amongst  those  whose  performances  were  to  be  mixed 
up  with  the  sermon  and  prayers,  the  name  of  a  Miss  Cheese 
had  been  announced  ;  and  Dr.  Chalmers  reinforced  his 
argument  with  the  managers  by  telling  them  that  in  his 
country  the  cheese  was  never  served  till  the  solid  part  of 
the  entertainment  was  over. 


158 


PERSONAL   CHARACTER   OF  DR.    CHALMERS, 


too  soon.  Found  a  company  in  David  Grant's,  and  he  kept 
me  up  till  two  in  the  morning.  A  kind-hearted,  rattling 
fellow.    N.B.  The  collection  is  now  401Z.— P.  50. 

Chalmers  was  appointed  to  the  professorship  of 
theology  in  Edinburgh  in  1S28.  He  mentions  that, 
in  preparation  for  its  duties,  he  got  up  at  six  o'clock, 
in  order  to  have  time  for  "  a  little  of  Greek,  Latin, 
and  Hebrew  each  day."  Alluding  to  the  prospect 
of  diminished  revenues  and  other  untovrard  fea- 
tures, he  says  :  "  I  foresee  the  coldness  of  friends, 
the  controversy  of  foes,  and  probably  the  decline 
of  earthly  comfort,  in  my  approaching  connection 
■with  Edinburgh."  The  salary  of  the  professor  of 
theology  at  the  period  of  liis  induction  was  200/. ; 
but  at  the  end  of  the  first  session  the  "  amateur 
students,"  headed  by  Dr.  Morehead,  an  English 
clergyman,  presented  a  thank-offering  of  202Z. 

Dr.  Hanna  adverts  copiously  to  the  Church  con- 
troversies that  took  place  within  the  sphere  of 
his  narrative,  but  as  they  are  of  ecclesiastical 
rather  than  general  interest,  we  can  touch  only 
on  salient  points.  In  1S32  Chalmers  was  nomi- 
nated Moderator  of  the  General  Assembly  of  the 
Church.  In  1835  Chalmers  was  in  the  midst  of 
his  great  and  favorite  scheme  of  Church  exten- 
sion. We  find  a  magnificent  passage  in  a  sei'mon 
delivered  about  this  time  in  anticipation  of  the 
breaking  out  of  cholera.  The  topic  insisted  on 
is  the 

CONNECTION  BETWEEN   PRAYER  AND  THE  UNIFORMITY   OF 
NATURE. 

Instead  of  propounding  our  doctrine  in  the  terms  of  a  gene- 
ral argument,  let  us  try  the  effect  of  a  few  special  instances, 
by  wliich,  perhaps,  we  might  more  readily  gain  the  consent 
of  your  understanding  to  our  views. 

When  the  sigh  of  the  midnight  storm  sends  fearful  agita- 
tion into  a  mother's  heart,  as  she  thinks  of  her  sailor- boy  now 
exposed  to  its  fury  on  the  waters  of  a  distant  ocean,   these 
stern  disciples  of  a  hard  and  stern  infidelity  would,  on  this 
notion  of  arigid  and  impracticable  constancy  in  nature,  for- 
bid her  prayers,  holding  them  to  be  as  impotent  and  vain, 
though  addressed  to  the  God  who  has  all  the  elements  in 
His  hand,  as  if  Ufte;l  up  with  senseless  importunity  to  the 
raving  elements  themselves.     Yet  nature  would  strongly 
prompt  the  aspiration  ;  and  if  there  be  truth  in  our  argument, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  constitution  of  the  universe  to  forbid 
its  accomplishment.     God  might  answer  the  prayer,  not  by 
unsettling  the  order  of  secondary  causes — not  by  reversing 
any  of  the  wonted  successions  that  are  known  to  take  place 
in  the  ever-restless,  ever-heaving  atmosphere — not  by  sen- 
sible miracle  among  those  nearer  footsteps  which  the  phi- 
losopher has  traced,  but  by  the  touch  of  an  immediate  hand 
among  the  deep  recesses  of  materialism,  which  are  beyond 
the    ken    of  all  his   instruments.     It  is  thence  that   the 
Sovereign  of  nature  might  bid  the  wild  uproar  of  the  ele- 
ments into  silence.    It  is  there  that  the  virtue  comes  out  of 
Him,  which  passes  like  a  winged  messenger  from  the  in- 
visible to  the  visible ;  and,   at  the  threshold  of  separation 
between  these  two  regions,  impresses  the  direction  of  the 
Almighty's  will  on  the  remotest  cause  which  science  can 
mount  her  way  to.    From  this  point  in  the  series,  the  path 
of  descent  along  the  line  of  nearer  and  proximate  causes 
may  be  rigidly  invariable  ;  and  in  respect  of  the  order,  the 


precise  undeviating  order,  irherewith  they   follow  each 
other,  all  things  continue  as  they  were  from  the  beginning 
of  the  creation.     The  heat,  and  the  vapor,  and  the  atmos- 
pherical precipitates,  and  the  consequent  moving  forces  by 
which  either  to  raise  anew  tempest,  or  to  lay  an  old  one, 
all  these  may  proceed,  and  without  one  hairbreadth  of  de- 
viation,  according  to   the   successions  of  our   established 
philosophy,  yet  each  be  but  the  obedient  messenger  of  that 
voice  which  gave  forth  its  command  at  the  fountain-head 
of  the  whole  operation;  which  commissioned  the  vapors  to 
ascend  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  made  lightnings  for 
the  rain,  and  brought  the  wind  out  of  his  treasuries.   These 
are  the  palpable  steps  of  the  process  ;  but  an  unseen  in- 
fluence, behind  the  farthest  limit  of  man's  boasted  discover- 
ies, may  have  set  them  a-going.    And  that  influence  may 
have  been  accorded  to  prayer — the  power  that  moves  Him 
who  moves  the  universe  ;  and  who,  without  violence  to  the 
known  regularities  of  nature,  can  either  send  forth   the 
hurricane  over  the  face  of  the  deep,  or  recall  it  at  His 
pleasure.     Such  is  the  joyful  persuasion  of  faith,  and  proud 
philosophy  cannot  disprove  it.    A  woman's  feeble  cry  may 
have  overruled  the  elemental  war,  and  hushed  into  silence 
this  wild  frenzy  of  the  winds  and  the  waves,  and  evoked 
the  gentler  breezes  from  the  cave  of    their  slumbers,  and 
wafted  the  vessel  of  her  dearest  hopes,  and  which  held  the 
first   and  fondest  of  her  earthly  treasures,  to   its  desired 
haven.— P.  320. 

During  the  period  embraced  in  this  volume, 
Chalmers'  literary  efforts  were  confined  for  the 
most  part  to  the  production  of  his  "  Political  Eco- 
nomy," and  his  "  Bridgewater  Treatise."   Econo- 
mics was  a  congenial  subject,  but  yet  it  is  the  one 
department  of  his  labors  least  appreciated  by  the 
public.     We  observe  that  Mr.  Mills  rescues  one 
of  his  theories  from  unmerited  obloquy,  and  pos- 
sibly  other  -writers  of  acknowledged  eminence 
may  do  the   same  for  other  isolated  portions  ; 
but,  as  a  whole,  Chalmers'  system  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  adopted  by   any  modern  school. 
That  a  right  moral  is  necessary  to  a  right  civil 
order  of  things,  will  be  admitted;  but  similarly 
right  morals  are  necessary  to  the  right  health  of 
the  animal   body,  yet  no  amount  of  ethics  or 
knowledge  of  the  dependence  of  hygiene  on  ethics 
will  prevent  or  cure  organic  and  functional  de- 
rangements.    For  prophylactic  or  remedial  mea- 
sures we  must  have  recourse  to  the  sciences  of 
anatomy,  physiology,  and  pathology ;  and  these 
must  be  studied  independently  of  all  moral  con- 
siderations.     In    like    manner,     probably,    the 
structure,  functions,  and  abnormal  states  of  the 
social  system  must  be  investigated  in  their  in- 
herent subtleties,  witliout  reference  to  moral  cu- 
rative treatment.     "  The  extent  and  stability  of 
the  national  resources'  may  be  seriously  affected 
without  any  infraction  being  made  on  the  deca- 
logue, and  exclusive  reference  to  ethics  may  tend 
to  obscure  the  more  profound  problems  of  the 
science. 

But  leaving  this  dry  subject,  we  shall  now  col- 
lect such  sketches  of  the  "  notables"  of  the  day  as 
are  to  be  found  scattered  through  the  volume. 


PERSONAL   CHARACTER   OF   DR.    CHALMERS. 


159 


Scott  and  Chalmers  appear  to  have  met  only 
once  in  public,  namely,  on  the  platform  of  the 
School  of  Arts  ;  whether  they  met  in  private  is 
not  stated. 

Coleridge  and  most  of  the  undermentioned 
lions  -were  seen  by  Chalmers  during  his  visits  to 
London. 

Thursday.— V^s  spent  three  hours  with  the  great  Cole- 
ridge. He  lives  with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Gillman,  on  the  same 
footing  that  Cowper  did  with  the  Unwins.  His  conversa- 
tion, which  flowed  in  a  mighty,  unremitting  stream,  is  most 
astonishing,  but,  I  must  confess,  to  me  still  unintelligible. 
I  caught  occasional  glimpses  of  what  he  would  be  at,  but 
mainly  he  was  very  far  out  of  all  sight  and  all  sympathy. 
I  hold  it,  however,  a  great  acquisition  to  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  him.  You  know  that  Irving  sits  at  his  feet, 
and  drinks  in  the  inspiration  of  every  syllable  that  falls 
from  him.  There  is  a  secret  and  to  me  as  yet  unintelligible 
communion  of  spirit  betwixt  them,  on  the  ground  of  a  cer- 
tain German  mysticism  and  transcendental  lake-poetry 
which  1  am  not  yet  up  to.  Gordon  says  it  is  all  unintelli- 
gible nonsense  ;  and  I  am  sure  a  plain  Fife  man  as  uncle 
"  Tammas,''  had  he  been  alive,  would  have  pronounced  it  the 
greatest  buff  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life. 

Returning  from  this  interview,  Dr.  Chalmers  remarked 
to  Mr.  Irving  upon  the  obscurity  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  utter- 
ances, and  said  that,  for  his  part,  he  liked  to  see  all  sides 
of  an  idea  before  taking  up  with  it.  "  Ha  1"  said  Mr.  Irv- 
ing in  reply,  "you  Scotchmen  would  handle  an  idea  as 
■  a  butcher  handles  an  ox.  For  my  part,  I  love  to  see  an 
idea  looming  through  the  mist." 

Alluding  to  his  preaching  in  London  during 
this  visit,  Chalmers  says — 

Mr.  Coleridge,  and  many  other  notables  whom  I  cannot 
recollect,  were  among  my  hearers.  Coleridge  I  saw  in  the 
vestry  both  before  and  after  service ;  he  was  very  compli- 
mentary. 

On  an  after-visit  to  the  metropolis  he  remarks — 

Half-an-hour  with  Coleridge  was  filled  up  without  inter- 
mission by  one  continuous  flow  of  eloquent  discourse  from 
that  prince  of  talkers.   He  began,  in  answer  to  the  common 
inquiries  as  to  his  health,  by  telling  of  a  fit  of  insensibility 
in  which,  three  weeks  before,  he  had  lain  for  thirty-five 
minutes.  As  sensibility  returned,  and  before  he  had  opened 
his  eyes,  he  uttered  a  sentence  about  the  fugacious  nature 
of  consciousness,  from  which  he  passed  to  a  discussion  of 
the   singular  relations  between    the    soul   and   the  body. 
Asking  for  Mr.  Irving,  but  waiting  for  no  reply,  he  poured 
out  an  eloquent  tribute  of  his  regard— mourning  pathetically 
that  such  a  man  should  be  so  throwing  himself  away.  Mr. 
Irving's  book  on  the  "Human  Nature  of  Christ"  in  its 
analysis   was  minute   to  absurdity:  one   would   imagine 
that  the  pickling  and  preserving  were  to  follow,  it  was  so 
like  a  cookery  book.    Unfolding  then  his  own  scheme  of 
the  Apocalypse— talking  of  the  mighty  contrast  between 
its  Christ  and  the  Christ  of  the  Gospel  narrative,  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge said  that  Jeses  did  not  come  now  as  before,  meek  and 
gentle,  healing  the  sick  and  feeding  the  hungry,  and  dis- 
pensing blessings  all  around,  but  he  came  on  a  while  horse  ; 
and  who  were  his  attendants  ?— Famine,  and  War,  and 
Pestilence.— P.  2C2. 

Of  Edward  Irving  much  is  said.     Among  other 
eccentricities  was  the  length  of  his  services. 


Saturday,  19th.— Mr.  Gordon  informed  me  that  yester- 
night Mr.  Irving  preached  on  his  prophecies  at  Hackney 
Chapel  for  two  hours  and  a  half,  and  though  very  powerful, 
yet  the  people  were  dropping  away,  when  he,  Mr.  I.,  ad- 
dressed them  on  the  subject  of  their  leaving  him.  I  really 
fear  lest  his  prophecies,  and  the  excessive  length  and  weari- 
ness of  his  services,  may  unship  him  altogether,  and  I 
mean  to  write  to  him  seriously  upon  the  subject.— P.  1C3. 

Chalmers'  personal  experience  was  to  the  same 

effect. 

I  undertook  to  open  Irving's  new  chapel  in  London.  The 
congregation,  in  their  eagerness  to  obtain  seats,  had  already 
been  assembled  about  tiiree  hours.  Irving  said  he  would 
assist  me  by  reading  a  chapter  for  me  in  the  first  instance. 
He  chose  the  very  longest  chapter  in  the  Bible,  and  went 
on  with  his  exposition  for  an  hour  and  a  half.  When  my 
turn  (fame,  of  what  use  could  I  be  in  an  exhausted  receiver  . 
Ou  another  similar  occasion  he.  kindly  proffered  me  the 
same  aid,  adding,  "  1  can  be  short."  I  said,  "How  long 
will  it  take  you  ?•'  He  answered,  '■  Only  one  hodu  a.sd 
FORTY  MINUTES."  "  Then,"  replied  1,  '"I  must  decline  the 
favor."— P.  271. 

Chalmers  and  Irving  met  for  the  last  time  in 
London.  The  former  was  in  bed  at  the  time. 
"He  stopped,"  says  Chalmers,  "for  two  hours, 
wherein  he  gave  his  expositions ;  and  I  gave,  at 
greater  length  and  liberty  than  I  had  ever  done 
before,  my  advice  and  my  views.  We  parted 
from  each  other  with  much  cordiality,  after  a 
prayer,  which  he  himself  offered  and  delivered 
with  great  pathos  and  piety."' 

The  manner  of  Irving's  death  was  in  keeping 
with  his  whole  history.  His  father-in-law  men- 
tions that — 

His  medical  advisers  had  recommended  him  to  proceed 
before  the  end  of  autumn,  to  Madeira,  or  some  other  spot 
where  he  might  shun  the  vicissitudes  and  inclemency  of  a 
British  winter.    But  some  of  the  oracular  voices  whioh 
found  utterance  in  his  church  had  proclaimed  it  to  be  the 
will  of  God  that  he  should  go  to  Scotland,  and  do  a  great 
work  there.  Accordingly,  after  an  equestrian  tour  in  Wales, 
by  whioh  his  health  appeared  at  first  to  be  improved,  but 
the  benefit  of  whioh  he  lost  by  exposure  to  the  weather  and 
occasional  preaching,  contrary  to  the  injunctions  of  his 
physician,  he  arrived  at  Liverpool  on  his  way  to  the  North. 
In  that  town  he  was  taken  alarmingly  ill,  and  was  unable, 
for  several  days,  to  quit  his  bed  i  but  no  sooner  could  he 
rise  and  walk  through  the  room,  than  he  went,  in  defiance  of 
the  prohibition  of  liis  medical  attendant,  on  board  a  steam- 
boat for  Greenock.    From  Greenock  he  proceeded  to  Glas- 
gow, delighted  at  having  reached  the  first  destination  that 
had  been  indicated  to  him.    From  Glasgow  it  was  his  pur- 
pose to  proceed  to  Edinburgh  ;  but  this  he  never  accom- 
plished.    So  much,  however,  was  his  mind  impressed  with 
its  being  his  duty  to  go  there,  that,  even  after  he  was  una- 
ble to  rise  from   his  bed  without  assistance,  he  proposed 
that  he  should  be  carried  thither  in  a  litter,  if  the  journey 
could  not  be  accomplished  any  other  way  ;  and  it  was  only 
because  the  friends  about  him  refused  to  comply  with  his 
urgent  requests  to  that  effect,  that  the  thing  was  not  done. 
Could  he  have  commanded  the  means  himself,  the  attempt, 
at  least,  would  have  been  made.  .  .  .  "Well,"  said   he, 
"the  sum  of  the  matter  is,  if  I  live,  I  live  unto  the  Lord ; 
and  if  I  die.  I  die  unto  the  Lord  ;  living  or  dying,  I  am  the 


160 


PERSONAL    CHARACTER    OF   DR.    CHALMERS, 


Lord's  ;"  a  conclusion  which  seemed  to  set  at  rest  all  his 
difficulties  on  the  subject  of  his  duty.  So  strongly  had  his 
confidence  of  restoration  communicated  itself  to  Mrs.  Irving, 
that  it  was  not  till  within  an  hour  or  so  of  his  death  that 
she  entertained  any  idea  of  the  impending  event. — P.  288. 

Going  to  the  House  of  Common?,  he 

Saw  and  spoke  to  Peel  ;  after  which  Mr.  Macaulay  got 
another  introduction  and  joined  me.  In  the  lobby,  met 
an  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Whitmore,  M.P.  ;  we  were  dis- 
appointed as  to  the  debate,  it  having  been  postponed,  and 
the  topics  of'  discussion  were  comparatively  of  smaller  in- 
terest, as  spring-guns,  and  others.  However,  we  got  a 
sight  of  more  of  the  speakers,  as  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  and 
some  more.  Mr.  Brougham  spoke  a  little ;  he  came  and 
talked  with  me  in  a  way  that  was  very  friendly  and  inter- 
esting. He  said  nothing  about  the  London  University ; 
and  my  impression  now  is  that,  rather  than  risk  any  dis- 
couragement, they  will  wait  the  progress  of  events,  more 
especially  as  they  have  time  for  w-aiting.  This  leaves  the 
matter  in  the  best  possible  state  for  me. 

From  Brougham  Chalmers  afterwards  received 
the  following  note  regarding  the  short-lived  Wel- 
lington administration : — 

My  bear  sir  : — I  congratulate  you  sincerely  on  the  favor- 
able prospects  of  some  of  those  great  causes  in  which  (as 
indeed  in  most)  we  feel  interested  in  common.  Really 
slavery  cannot  now  expect  much  longer  protection  from  a 
government  so  weak,  that  it  is  even  about  to  give  Parlia- 
mentary Reform  as  a  sop,  and  to  save  itself  for  a  few 
months. — Believe  me,  ever  most  respectfully  and  sincerely 
yours,  H.  BKonoHAJi. 

Peel  also  became  his  correspondent,  having 
voluntarily  conferred  on  him  the  office  of  lying's 
cliciplain.  With  Jeffrey  he  appears  to  have  been 
intimate,  and  specimens  of  their  correspondence 
are  inserted  in  the  volume.  Dr.  Philpotts  and 
Washington  Irving  he  met  at  Murray's,  the  pub- 
lisher. But  not  to  dwell  on  more  of  the  notorious, 
we  shall  conclude  the  list  with 

O'CONNELL   AND  JIRS.   OPIE 

Monday^  July  \st. — After  dinner  I  went  down  to  the 
House  of  Commons.  A  dull  debate,  and  I  did  not  sit  to 
the  end  of  it.  Sir  Robert  Peel  the  best  speaker.  A  num- 
ber of  the  members  came  to  me  ;  last,  though  not  least, 
Mr.  Daniel  O'Connell,  who  shook  me  most  cordially  by  the 
hands,  complimenting  me  on  my  evidence  about  the  Irish 
Poor-laws,  saying  that  he  was  a  disciple  of  mine  upon 
that  subject,  and  not  of  his  own  priest,  Dr.  Doyle  ;  and  I, 
on  the  other  hand,  glad  of  good  being  done  whatever  quar- 
ter it  came  from,  and  knowing  him  to  be  an  influential 
personage,  expressed  myself  much  gratified  with  the  view 
that  he  had  taken  on  that  question.  I  am  surfe  it  would 
have  done  yonr  heart  much  good  to  have  seen  how  closely 
and  cordially  Mr.  Daniel  O'Connell  and  your  papa  hugged 
and  greeted  each  other  in  the  Lower  House  of  Parliament. 

But  last  of  all  I  saw  another  lady,  who  dined  and  spent 
the  night — now  aged  and  in  Quaker  attire,  which  she  had 
but  recently  put  en,  and  who  in  early  life  was  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  of  our  literary  women,  whose  works, 
thirty  years  ago,  I  read  with  great  delight — no  less  a  person 
than  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Opie,  authoress  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite feminine  tales,  and  for  which  I  used  to  place  her  by 
the  side  of  Miss  Edgeworth.    It  was  curious  to  myself 


that,  though  told  by  Mr.  Gurney  in  the  morning  of  her 
being  to  dine,  I  had  forgot  the  circumstance,  and  the  idea 
of  the  accomplished  novelist  and  poet  was  never  once  sug- 
gested by  the  image  of  this  plain-looking  Quakeress  till  it 
rushed  upon  me  after  dinner,  when  it  suddenly  and  incon- 
ceivably.  augmented  the  interest  I  felt  in  her.  "We  had 
much  conversation,  and  drew  greatly  together,  walking  and 
talking  with  each  other  on  the  beautiful  lawn  after  dinner. 
She  has  had  access  into  all  kinds  of  society,  and  her  con- 
versation is  all  the  more  rich  and  interesting.  I  complained 
to  her  of  one  thing  in  Quakerism,  and  that  is  the  mode  of 
their  introductions :  that  I  could  have  recognized  in  Mrs- 
Opie  an  acquaintance  of  tliirty  years'  standing,  but  that  I 
did  not  and  could  not  feel  the  charm  of  any  such  reminis- 
cence when  Joseph  John  simply  bade  me  lead  out  Amelia 
from  his  drawing-room  to  his  dining-room.  I  felt,  how 
ever,  my  new  acquaintance  with  this  said  Amelia  to  be  one 
of  the  great  acquisitions  of  my  present  journey  ;  and  this 
union  of  rank,  and  opulence,  and  literature,  and  polish  of 
mind  with  plainness  of  manners,  forms  one  of  the  great 
charms  of  the  society  in  this  house  [Mr.  Gurney's]. 

His  excursions  in  the  English  provinces  were 
productive  of  more  amusement  than  anything 
that  happened  in  the  Emerald  Isle.  As,  for  ex- 
ample, in  one  town  the  case  of 

THE   BARBER  AND  BATH-KEEPER. 

Wednesday,  26«A. -^Started  at  nine,  much  refreshed.  Got 
a  hair-dresser  to  clip  me — a  great  humorist ;  he  undertook, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  operation,  to  make  me  look 
forty  years  younger,  by  cutting  out  every  white  hair  and 
leaving  all  the  black  ones.  There  was  a  very  bright  corus- 
cation of  clever  sayings  that  passed  between  us  while  the 
process  was  going  on.  I  complimented  his  profession,  and 
told  him  that  he  had  the  special  advantage  that  his  crop 
grew  in  all  weathers,  and  that  while  I  had  heard  all  over  the 
provinces  the  heavy  complaints  of  a  bad  hay-harvest,  his  hay- 
making in  the  metropolis  went  on  pleasantly  and  prosper- 
ously all  the  year  round.  He  was  particularly  pleased  with 
the  homage  I  rendered  to  his  peculiar  vocation,  and  assured 
me,  after  he  had  performed  his  work,  that  he  had  at  least 
made  ma  thirty  years  younger.  I  told  him  how  delighted 
my  wife  would  be  with  the  news  of  this  wondrous  trans- 
formation, and  gave  him  half-a-crown,  observing  that  it 
was  little  enough  for  having  turned  me  into  a  youthful 
Adonis.  We  parted  in  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  great  mu- 
tual satisfaction  with  each  other.  Went  from  this  to  the 
warm-bath,  where  a  German  had  the  management.  He 
told  me  that  he  understood  me  better  than  most  of  the 
English  who  came  to  him.  I  was  at  pains  to  explain  to 
him  the  reason  of  this  ;  and  tell  Miss  Parker  what  my  ex- 
planation was — that  our  island  was  named  Great  Britain, 
that  English  was  the  patois,  but  that  I  came  from  Scotland, 
and  that  our  Scotch  was  the  pure  British  dialect. — P.  3t-0. 

Chalmers  took  his  due  share  of  the  discussion 
of  public  questions.  He  was  in  favor  of  Catholic 
Emancipation,  and  was  invited  by  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  to  throw  the  weight  of  liis  influence 
into  the  Liberal  scale.  He  was  also  summoned 
by  Mr.  Spring  Rice  as  a  witness  before  the  Par- 
liamentary Committee  on  the  Irish  Poor-laws ; 
but  as  those  are  stale  topics  now,  we  prefer 
dwelling  on  subjects  of  a  personal  and  domestic 
character.    Here  is  a  good  hint  on 


PERSONAL   CHARACTER  OF  DR.    CHALMERS. 


161 


NATURAL   AFFECTION. 
I  fear  that  I  erred  with  Miss  L.  to-night  in  my  vehemence 

about  the  exactions  of  attention  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  . 

I  see  that,  by  a  law  of  our  sentient  nature,  love  cannot  be 
bidden,  and  whenever  attentions  are  demanded  I  do  feel  a 
very  strong  repugnance,  so  that  it  is  working  against  a 
moral  impossibility  to  attempt  the  alTection  ;  and  without 
the  affection  I  feel  it  to  be  very  painful  to  be  working  at 
the  required  attentions  in  the  spirit  of  bondage.  But  let 
me  be  silent  on  these  occasions ;  aim  at  charity,  and  never 
be  diverted  from  the  meekness  of  wisdom. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  humor  of 

A    SCENE  AT  BUADFOUD. 

Found  a  fair  where  I  alighted,  and  was  somewhat  an- 
noyed in  my  transition  to  the  coach  for  Halifax.  1  had 
first  to  get  a  porter  to  carry  my  luggage  through  the  crowds 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  town  from  which  that  coach 
started  ;  then  was  told  that  the  coach  had  not  come  in,  and 
I  could  not  get  a  place  till  it  arrived  ;  then  had  not  a  hole 
to  put  my  head  in,  as  every  room  swarmed  with  drinking 
and  drunken  market-people  ;  then,  as  I  did  not  like  to  be 
far  away  from  my  luggage,  in  an  open  and  crowded  coach- 
office,  had  to  keep  my  station  near  the  door,  where,  as  for- 
tune would  have  it,  there  was  a  large,  circular  assemblage 
of  swine,  on  the  margin  of  which  I  stood  and  contemplated 
their  habitudes  and  politics,  for  I  could  perceive  ah  action 
and  reaction,  a  competition  for  food,  a  play  of  emotions  re- 
ciprocating from  one  to  the  other,  of  which  emotions,  how- 
ever, anger  is  far  the  most  conspicuous,  prompting  to  a  bite 
or  a  scratch,  and  even  an  occasional  engagement.  Speak- 
ing of  politics,  you  have  heard  me  say  that  a  man  of  re- 
finement and  educatiion  won't  travel  through  England  on 
the  tops  of  coaches  without  becoming  a  Tory.  My  Tory- 
ism has  been  further  confirmed  this  day.  There  was  a 
(Quakeress  girl,  with  a  still  younger  companion,  traveling 
from  their  boarding-school  home,  and  this  was  all  well 
enough  ;  but  there  were  also  the  feeders  and  wool-staplers 
of  the  West  Riding,  fat  and  unintelligent,  with  only  pursy 
and  vesicular  proportions  on  each  side  of  their  chins,  and 
a  superabundance  of  lard  in  their  gills,  whose  manners 
weU-nlgh  overset  me,  overloading  our  coach  with  their 
enormous  carcasses,  and  squeezing  themselves,  as  they 
ascended  from  various  parts  of  the  road,  between  passengers 
already  in  a  state  of  compression,  to  the  gross  infraction  of 
all  law  and  justice,  and  the  imminent  danger  of  our  necks. 
The  days  weie  when  I  would  have  put  down  all  this  ;  but 
whether  from  the  love  of  peace,  which  grows  with  age,  or 
perhaps  from  some  remainder  of  the  enfeebling  influenza, 
which,  however,  is  getting  better,  my  quiescence  predo- 
minated.— r.  305. 

Those  who  were  familiar  -with  the  outer  man 
of  the  subject  of  this  biography  will  smile  at  his 

ALLUSIONS  TO  COSTUME. 

Thursda-ij. — Dressed  for  dinner.  Have  got  a  ne'W  method 
of  folding  up  my  coat,  which  I  shall  teach  you  when  I  get 
home,  and  is  of  great  use  to  a  traveler.  I  am  about  as  fond 
of  it  as  I  was  of  the  new  method  of  washing  my  bands. 

Friday. — I  found  yesterday  a  new  waistcoat  among  my 
clothes  which  I  did  not  commission  ;  however,  I  put  it  on 
with  the  rest  of  my  new  suit,  and,  being  a  good  day,  came 
yesterday  to  Broomhall  without  luggage.  My  braics  are 
uot  the  worse. 

Equally  provocative  of  risibility  are  two  re- 
ferences to 


CORPULENCE. 

The  minister  of  D insisted  for  a  sermon  for  some 

schools  there.  He  put  his  arm  under  mine,  and  meant  to 
overbear  all  ray  negations.  His  last  argument  for  a  sermon 
was  that  I  was  fat  ;  on  which  I  wrenched  my  arm  away 
from  him,  and  came  off. 

The  fact  that  the  minister  of  D was  right 

as  to  obesity,  received  corroboration  at  an  "  aca- 
demic party." 

Mr.  Duncan  annoyed  mo  by  the  affirmation  that  I  am 
sensibly  and  considerably  fatter  since  I  left  St.  Andrew's. 
There  must  be  serious  measures  taken  to  keep  me  down. 
Had  cordial  greetings  with  the  gentlemen  in  the  library, 
then  we  sallied  out  to  the  premises,  and  had  a  very  delight- 
ful forenoon  saunter  through  the  woods  and  lanes  of  Cos- 
terton.  Before  dinner  we  had  a  game  at  bowls  in  a  green 
before  the  house.  I  and  Mr.  Duncan  against  Dr.  Nicoll 
and  Dr.  James  Hunter.  We  had  the  best  of  three  games. 
With  all  the  convivialities  of  the  west,  I  have  seen  no  such 
guzzling  as  to-day  with  my  St.  Andrew's  friends,  and  told 
Mr.  Duncan  so.  They  are  rare  lads,  these  Lefterati  or 
iiJaterati.  Before  supper  there  was  family  worship,  when 
I  was  asked  to  officiate.  We  were  shown  to  our  beds  about 
twelve.  I  got  the  large  bed-room  in  which  Mr.  Duncan 
was  the  night  before,  and  he  had  a  closet  with  a  small 
sofa-bed  that  communicated  with  the  room.  This  arrange- 
ment was  vastly  agreeable  to  me  ;  and  we  tumbled  into 
our  respective  couches  between  twelve  and  one.  I  like 
him.— P.  279. 

The  great  charm  of  the  volume  is  the  free  and 
unrestrained  style  of  the  letters  and  journals  con 
tained  in  it.  Being  written  to  or  intended  for  the 
perusal  of  the  members  of  his  own  family,  and 
with  no  view  to  publication,  there  is  an  ease  and 
racy  homeUness  about  them  that  is  truly  refresh- 
ing. The  amount  of  his  domestic  correspondence 
was  extraordinary,  and  could  have  been  prompt- 
ed only  by  tlie  purest  and  most  devoted  attach- 
ment to  his  household.  To  Mrs.  Chalmers  he 
says  on  one  occasion : — 

I  want  each  letter  you  receive  from  me  to  be  signalized 
by  a  fea.-it  of  strawberries  to  the  children  on  the  day  of  its 
arrival  ;  therefore,  I  expect  that  on  Saturday,  which  will 
be  the  day  of  your  receiving  this,  these  strawberries,  with 
a  competent  quantity  of  cream  and  sugar,  shall  be  given 
accordingly,  and  given  from  me,  the  papa  of  these  said 
children,  each  and  all  of  them  being  told  that  he  is  the 
donor  of  the  same. 

The  spirit  of  self-examination  penetrates  into 
deeper  recesses. 

25t/..— I  have  to  record  this  day  that  I  am  not  mortified 
to  the  love  of  praise.  I  did  feel  an  anxiety  that  Miss  L. 
should  speak  of  the  sermon  of  yesterday  when  we  walked. 
I  did  feel  interested  and  gratified  when  she  did  speak.  Still 
more,  I  did  feel  the  gratification  of  Mr.  Duncan's  compli- 
ments, and  of  the  yet  fuller  testimonies  which  were  re- 
ported to  me  in  the  evening  ;  and  I  do  mnch  fear,  or  rather 
I  certainly  know,  that  I  feel  a  complacency  in  all  this ; 
and  what  if  it  be  not  superior  to  the  pleasure  I  should  feel 
in  having  been  the  instrument  of  a  saving  and  spiritual 
impression  ?  This  is  so  distinct  a  preference  of  my  own 
glory  to  that  of  God's,  so  obvious  a  preaching  of  self  in- 


162 


SOME    GREAT    WORK, 


stead  of  the  Saviour,  so  glaring  a  preference  of  the  wisdom, 
of  words  to  the  simplicity  which  is  in  the  cross  of  Christ, 
that  my  carnal  tendencies  in  regard  to  this  matter  should 
be  the  subject  of  my  strictest  vigilance  and  severest  casti- 
gation. 

Do  not  speak  enough  in  society  of  these  things.  I  am 
complained  of  on  that  account.  0  God,  keep  me  from  the 
guilt  of  denying  Christ  by  m.y  silence — P.  91. 

Again : — 

Have  still  to  record  a  dreary  ahsence  of  God  and  of  the 
Spirit  from  my  soul.  The  want  is,  that  I  do  not  feel  its 
dreariness ;  I  live  in  comfort  without  God,  and  can  enjoy 
humor  and  conversation  with  ungodly  people.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  laying  a  charge  at  any  time  through  the 
day  upon  my  conscience  ;  an  act  of  self-recollection,  that 
now  I  am  in  tire  presence  of  God,  and  I  must  not  forget 
that  I  am  His  servant.    Might  not  this  be  a  good  expedient  ? 


and  when  doing  so,  if  I  vent  forth  my  aspirations  for  pres- 
ent grace,  will  not  this  be  a  combination  of  watchfulness 
with  prayer  ?  0  my  God,  enable  me  to  spread  a  savour  of 
divine  things  around  me  I  Let  my  life  be  a  perpetual 
testimony  for  God  !— P.  93. 

We  understand  that  another  volume  will  con- 
clude this  memoir ;  and  we  learn  that,  as  Dr. 
Hanna  nears  the  quicksands  of  contemporary- 
events,  fears  are  entertained  in  some  quarters 
that  the  biographer  may  be  merged  in  the  par- 
tisan. We  have  no  apprehension  of  any  effect 
of  this  kind.  The  able,  interesting,  and  impar- 
tial manner  in  which  he  has  executed  the  first 
portion  of  his  work,  is  a  sufficient  guaranty  as 
to  the  last. 


SOME   GREAT    WORK. 


BT       ALICE      CAREY 


Think  not  the  faith  by  which  the  jnst  shall  live 

Is  a  dead  creed — a  map  correct  of  heaven  ; 

Far  less  a  feeling  fond  and  fugitive, 

A  thoughtless  gift  witlidrawn  as  soon  as  given. 

It  is  an  afhrmatloQ  and  an  act 

That  bids  eternal  truth  be  present  fact. 

Hartley    Coleridge. 


The  dews  of  twilight  were  drowningthe  golden 
tresses  of  the  sun— the  birds,  those  sweet  poets, 
in  whose  songs  there  are  no  sorrows,  had  sung 
their  fill,  and  with  little  red  feet  clinging  to  the 
lithe  boughs,  were  softly  rocking  to  sleep,  with 
only  now  and  then  a  quick,  uncertain  twitter,  as 
though  they  could  not  quite  give  up  all  their 
music  yet. 

All  over  the  hills  and  along  the  valleys  daisies 
and  buttercups  and  crocuses  were  sprouting  up 
thick  in  the  grass,  and  along  the  brooksides  the 
violets  leaned  their  pensive  heads  listening  to  the 
rippling  of  the  water  among  the  blue  flagstones 
and  bright  pebbles,  and  broad-leaved  flags  and 
tufta  of  high  grass,  wherein  the  black  snipe  hides 
away  from  the  schoolboy. 

The  blackberry  vines  shine  along  the  edges  of 
the  meadows  ;  in  the  thicket  the  wild  morning- 
glory  twines  its  scarlet  rings  around  the  small 
limbs  of  the  sassafras,  lifting  itself  higher  and 
higher;  and  the  dark  buds  of  the  ivy  are  swelled 


almost  to  bursting,  for  all  the  past  week  the  April 
sunshine  and  showers  have  been  busy  at  their 
work.  The  verdure  is  softly  creeping  over  the 
boughs  that  sway  lightly  to  and  fro,  as  the  breeze 
comes  suddenly  from  the  distant  west,  and  sigh- 
ing its  murmurous  joy,  crosses  the  meadow  and 
fades  over  the  next  hill,  about  whose  base  lie 
patches  of  white  mist,  like  the  new-shorn  fleeces 
of  the  lambs.  Now  the  spider  works  all  day, 
and  her  fine  circular  net-work  spread  over  rose- 
bush or  lilac,  is  sunken  with  the  gray  dew.  From 
the  hollow  stub  where  all  day  the  lonely  crow 
sits  and  cries,  the  bat  comes  forth  and  flits  and 
wheels  blindly  about  the  open  door,  or  entering 
stealthily,  shaves  close  along  the  ceiling  with  its 
flabby  wings,  making  the  baby  clap  its  hands 
and  crow  again,  while  the  larger  children  chase 
hither  and  thither  in  perfect  tempests  of  delight. 
In  the  field,  sloping  to  the  south,  the  wheat 
that,  prisoned  all  winter  in  the  close,  cold  earth, 
almost  hides  the  dark  farrows,  save  that  here 


SOME  GREAT  WORK. 


168 


and  there,  where  the  plowshare  has  been  too 
deeply  driven,  the  plenteous  growth  is  cut  by  a 
barren  ridge. 

Away  in  the  valley,  where  the  pendulous 
boughs  of  the  elm  drop  on  the  one  side,  and  a 
border  of  maple  and  ash  reaches  along  the  other, 
the  cattle,  fed  to  repletion,  lie  sunk  in  beds  of  fresh 
clovers,  red  and  white,  or  idly  link  their  silver 
horns  and  push  each  other  about  in  playful  war- 
fare; while  just  above  the  hollow  where  the  hedge 
of  willows  drops  its  yellow  tassels  to  the  ground, 
and  crowning  the  neighboring  slope,  rises  the 
spire,  whence  drifts  such  solemn  music  over  all, 
and  about  which  cluster  the  cottages  of  the  peace- 
ful villagers,  who  keep  the  even  tenor  of  their 
way  in  the  beauty  of  innocent  and  humble  lives, 
apart  from  the  stormy  and  tumultuous  world. 
There,  in  the  shadow  of  the  church,  where  Sab- 
bath after  Sabbath  they  hearken  to  the  sorrowful 
warnings,  or  great  promises,  or  kind  admonitions 
of  the  simply  eloquent  pastor,  the  gravestones  of 
neighbors  and  kindred  stand  thick  under  the  trees. 
Some  have  gone  down  thither  in  whom  the  love 
of  life  was  strong,  caught  by  the  bright  tresses 
and  dragged  away;  some  glad  to  go  where  there 
is  no  more  pain,  wrapping  the  shroud  about  their 
bosoms  like  tlie  dainty  bridal  sheets;  and  some, 
whose  work  was  done,  with  the  flowers  of  three- 
score years  and  ten  white  about  their  foreheads, 
and  little  prattling  children  that  were  fearlessly 
trusted  to  the  dark — they  are  all  there,  nor  chirp 
of  the  merry  grasshopper,  nor  light  step  of  the 
timid  rabbit,  nor  the  music  of  the  evening  bell, 
disturbs  their  rest. 

It  is  the  season  of  quickening  life,  of  bird-songs 
and  sunshine ;  the  season  when  the  saddest  heart 
gathers  back  something  of  its  old  joy — when  we 
dig  about  the  roots  of  our  perished  hopes  and 
braid  up  the  broken  garland  anew.  Nature,  like  a 
kind  mother,  W003  us  from  the  house  of  mourning, 
and  covers  up  the  graves  of  our  dead  with  her 
blossoms.  This  is  a  beautiful  world  which  God 
has  given  us — the  fresh,  sprouting  pastures,  and 
rains,  that  come  down  singing  from  the  clouds — 
the  waving  cornfields  and  fruitful  orchards,  the 
spring  brimming  full  of  pure  cold  water,  and  the 
harvest,  with  its  sea  of  golden  heads  ;  are  not  these 
enough  for  my  happiness  ? 

The  cattle  wading  to  the  knees  in  fragrant 
meadows,  and  drinking  of  the  pure  brooks,  are 
satisfied — the  bird,  building  its  nest  anew,  and 
waiting  for  the  young  life  to  break  the  prisoning 
shell,  and  get  itself  wings  and  a  song,  is  satisfied — 
the  bee,  searching  the  woods  and  gardens,  and 
filling  its  silver  wells,  murmurs  only  of  joy  ;  for 
all  these  there  is  enough,  but  my  heart  the  while 


is  hungry  and  pining  atid  dissatisfied — the  arm  of 
God's  mercy  is  about  me,  but  I  cannot  rest,  and 
even  in  sight  of  the  crown  turn  rebelliously  from 
the  cross.  My  life  is  an  echo  among  ruins.  0 
my  Father,  let  me  do  for  thee  some  great  work  ! 

Away  down  the  distance  shine  tliu  lamps  in 
the  lonely  cells  of  the  fathers — the  grotto  of  the 
barefooted  hermit  is  still  bright  with  the  glory  of 
the  red  cross — the  stern  creed  of  tiie  Genevan  yet 
towers  in  sublime  and  awful  majesty  above  the 
flames  of  the  martyr,  and  the  seed  scattered  by 
tlie  inilder  Reformer  ha-j  sprung  up  and  shadow- 
ed half  the  world.  My  hands  are  idle,  though  I 
continually  pme  to  serve  thee — give  me,  0  my 
Father,  some  great  work. 

So  said  Miriam,  sitting  at  the  door  of  her  dark 
and  lofty  house,  as  through  the  deepening  twilight 
the  stars  broke  forth  one  by  one,  and  the  moon 
pushed  her  red  disk  through  a  drift  of  eastern 
clouds.  The  milkwhite  doves  that  had  sat  in  a 
long  row  on  the  eave  above  her  head,  catching 
the  sunshine  on  their  bosoms,  knew  the  night  was 
come,  and  shaking  the  dew  from  their  wings,  flew 
away — the  flowers,  as  their  nature  was,  either 
folded  their  petals  close  against  the  moonlight, 
or  opened  them  to  its  gentle  kiss,  and  the  blind 
mole  began  its  silent  work.  But  Miriam  sits  idly, 
and  folding  her  hands  upon  her  desolate  bosom, 
the  wind  blows  the  black  tresses  across  her  eyes, 
so  that  she  sees  not  the  thin  cheek  of  the  child 
that  flattens  itself  against  her  gate.  Wistfully  he 
looks,  reaching  toward  her  an  empty  hand,  while 
the  other  holds  the  gift  of  wild  flowers  that  shall 
repay  her  largess — in  vain,  in  vain — tlie  iron  bars 
yield  not  to  so  soft  a  pressure,  and  the  eyes  of 
the  sad  lady  are  not  once  lifted  up.  Darker  the 
shadows  drop  around  him,  and  tearfully  and 
feebly  he  goes  forward,  Ijut  his  steps  falter  more 
and  more,  and  he  siuks  exhausted  to  the  ground. 
The  wild  flowers  drop  from  his  hand,  and  are 
scattered  away  by  the  winds,  and  a  sense  of  dull- 
ness and  heaviness  weighs  down  his  eyelids.  The 
moon  breaks  from  a  cloud  and  wraps  him  in  a 
thin  cold  sheet,  and  the  bird,  fluttering  in  the 
branches  above,  shakes  the  dew  in  his  face — his 
mother's  smile  is  in  his  dream  : 

"  Her  blessing  like  a  line  of  light 
Is  all  around  him  day  and  night, 
And  like  a  beacon  guides  him  home.'' 

Home,  where  farewells  arc  ended  and  wander- 
ings done.  Close  on  the  path  of  the  poor  little 
child  comes  a  stout  traveler,  beating  down  the 
burrs  and  thistles  with  his  staff,  and  singing 
snatches  of  hymns.  Is  he  thinking  of  some  soul 
astray  ;  hark  to  the  words : 


164 


SOME   GREAT   WORK. 


When  God  smote  his  hands  together,  and  struck  out  thy 

soul  as  a  spark, 
Into  the  organized  glory  of  things,  from  deep  of  the  dark,— 
Say,  did'st  thou  shine,  did"st  thou  burn,  did'st  thou  honor 

the  power  in  the  form, 
As  the  star  does  at  night,  or  the  firefly,  or  even  the  little 

ground-worm  ? 
When.  God  on  thy  sins  had  pity,  and  did  not  trample  thee 

straight, 
With  his  wild  rains  beating  and  drenching  thy  light  found 

inadequate  ; 
When  he  only  sent  thee  the  North  winds,  a  little  searching 

and  cliill. 
To  quicken  thy  flame,  did'st  thou  kindle  and  flash  to  the 

heights  of  his  will  ? 
When  God  on  thy  sin  had  pity,  and  did  not  meet  it  as  such, 
But  tempered  llie  wind  to  thy  uses,  and  softened  the  world 

thy  touch ; 
At  least  thou  wast  moved   in   thy  soul,  though  unable  to 

prove  it  afar, 
Thou  could'st  carry  thy  light  like  a  jewel,  not  giving  it  like 

a  star  ? 

Suddenly  the  song  is  still— he  pauses,  and 
light,  such  light  as  might  be  shed  from  the  white 
wing  of  mercy's  angel,  illumines  his  face.  He 
flings  the  knapsack  from  his  shoulders,  and 
brushes  the  gray  hairs  from  his  eyes  that  are 
wrowino-  dim  with  the  shadows  of  time — time 
that  has  touched  him  gently  withal,  for  he  is  well 
bevond  the  summer — even  where  the  autumn 
whitens  to  the  winter  snow,  and  stooping  down, 
takes  up  the  little  child  in  his  arms.  I  will  bear 
him  back  to  yonder  friendly  mansion,  he  says — 
warmth  and  food  may  restore  him.  The  head 
droops  heavily  against  the  bosom  of  the  good  old 
man,  and  the  white  skin  seems  loose  about  the 
boy's  fingers  that  clasp  his  neck,  and  the  lips  are 
blue  and  unsmiling.  Light  is  the  burden,  for  in 
a  good  act  there  is  no  heaviness,  and  as  he  ne.ar8 
the  mansion  he  says,  I  shall  journey  forward 
lightlier  anon,  but  the  door  was  fast  shut,  and 
Miriam  was  gone  within  to  pray — "Give  me,  0 
my  Father,  to  do  for  thee  some  great  work !" 

All  night  the  tireless  watcher  folded  the  child 
in  his  bosom — sometimes  passing  his  hand  across 
his  forehead,  and  sometimes  holding  his  naked 
feet  to  give  them  warmth,  and  waiting  forHhe 
morning  ;  at  last,  reddening  the  high  eastern  hill, 
and  burning  through  the  wood^,  she  came,  and  all 
the  valleys  were  full  of  her  genial  smile;  but 
alas,  the  little  child  might  not  be  warmed  again. 
Where  the  joyous  warble  of  the  thrush  shook 
down  the  blossoms  of  the  hawthorn,  the  old  man 
made  a  grave, 

'■  And  left  the  babe  and  went  away  to  weep, 
And  listened  oft  to  hear  if  he  did  cry  ; 
But  the  great  river  sung  his  lullaby. 
And  unseen  angels  •watched  his  dreamless  sleep." 

The  hush  of  the  Sabbath  hung  over  the  world — 


it  was  the  early  tide  of  summer — the  winds  crept 
under  the  waves  of  the  ripening  rye,  and  hushed 
their  wild  laughter  into  murmurous  hymns — the 
birds  went  deeper  into  the  forests  and  carolled 
less  noisily  than  in  hours  agone — the  shaggy 
grapevines  were  weighed  down  with  green  clus- 
ters, and  the  red  berries  glistened  and  shone  from 
the  thicket  where  the  urchin  crept  slyly,  and 
half  afraid  of  the  stillness  of  the  time.  The  fra- 
grance of  the  lilacs  was  all  about  the  open  doors, 
and  the  rosevines,  bright  with  blooms,  blew  in  at 
the  windows.  The  cock  stood  erect  and  silent  in 
the  midst  of  his  feathery  dames,  for  even  he 
seems  to  strut  less  proudly  and  crow  less  lustily 
to-day  than  is  his  wont,  and  the  watchdog,  with 
his  nose  close  against  the  ground,  drowses  by  the 
wall. 

The  church  door  is  open,  and  the  sweet-voiced 
bell  is  calling  to  all  far  and  near — "  Come  up 
hither,"  and  from  far  and  near,  old  men  and 
maidens  and  youths  and  little  children  are  obey- 
ing the  call.  Some  go  in  noiselessly,  and  at  once 
give  their  hearts  to  the  searching  of  the  Holy 
Spirit.  Some  linger  at  the  door,  exchanging 
smiles  and  salutations,  and  haply  sufi'ering  the 
weariness  of  time's  change  and  chance,  or  the 
might  of  secular  aims  and  interest,  to  come  be- 
tween them  and  the  psalm.  Some  Avith  sprigs 
of  yew  or  cedar,  or  the  simple  blossoms  gathered 
by  the  way,  go  apart  among  the  graves  musing, 
or  weeping  alone ;  and  over  the  green  swell  of 
some  mound  that  keeps  down  the  pallid  hands 
of  tlie  dearly  loved  from  the  flowers,  leave  their 
offering  to  wither  like  the  earth-hopes  of  the 
sleeper  beneath. 

Slowly,  from  the  white  cottage  that  is  almost 
smothered  among  trees  and  shrubs  and  vines, 
comes  the  village  pastor — "young,  and  eminently 
beautiful,"  but  the  elasticity  is  gone  from  bis 
step,  and  in  his  face  there  is  the  expression  of  a 
sorrow  that  has  worked  itself  up  from  the  heart. 
Alas,  that  he  who  goes  up  to  speak  consolation 
to  the  mourner  and  comfort  to  the  atHicted,  should 
himself  be  neediest  of  all — alas,  that  while  he 
says  to  the  bruised  spirit,  heaven  is  waiting  to 
heal  you,  his  own  bosom  is  "  bound  from  bleeding 
with  a  cold  cerement  from  the  grave."  And 
wherefore  ?  Miriam,  Miriam,  putting  away  from 
thee  the  now  and  the  here,  and  sighing  for  the 
unattained  and  far  away,  in  mistaken  zeal,  let  us 
hope  not  in  pride,  hast  thou  nothing  to  answer  for 
in  this? 

That  hollow  temple  would  round  back  to  health 
Under  the  golden  fillet  of  thy  smile — 

thou  knowest  it  right  well. 

The  heavy  locks  dampen  with  the  dew  that 


SOME   GREAT  WORK. 


165 


gathers  to  his  forehead,  as  he  gazes  toward  the  | 
proud  and  lofty  house  where  she  dwells  wlioin 
he  fears  he  shall  miss  today  from  his  little  flock. 
From  the  hollow  of  willows  the  tassels  are  gone, 
and  in  the  meadow  beyond  the  clovers,  red  and 
■white,  are  alike    changed  to  a  dry  brown — the 
wheat  is  getting  its  yellow  beard ;  but  varied  na- 
ture charms  not  from  gloomy  yearning  the  in- 
habitant of  the  dark  and  close-shut  house.     No, 
no,  she  will  not  come — and  his  almost  transpa- 
rent hands  knit  themselves  tighter  together  as  he 
tries  to  shut  from  his  senses  what  he  vainly  calls 
the  carnal,  for  thoughts  of  the  spiritual  life.  I  have 
tasks  to   do  and  duties  to  perform,  he  muses  as 
he  walks  ;  if  I  am  unequal  to  their  fulfillment, 
should  I  seek  to  rest  my  weakness  upon  another, 
and  thereby  clog  the  movements  of  a  larger  zeal? 
or  shall  I  pine  out  of  life,  and  leave  undone  that 
which  I  feel  within  me  the  ability  to  do,  because 
the  hands  which   I   would  fain  have  made  my 
helpers  are  coldly  withdrawn '.     Nay,  there  are 
lambs  astray  that  even  I  may  gather  back— evils 
that  my  weak  hands  may  break — sepulchres  from 
which  I  may  roll  away  the  stone,  and  folding  the 
napkin  from  the  face  of  the  dead,  show  the  weep- 
ing   kindred   liiat   the   spirits    for  which    they 
mourn  are  not  there,  but  gone  before  them  into 
Paradise. 

Solemnly  from  the  old  tower  sounds  the  bell-, 
and  as  he  draws  near  the  church,  leaning  upon 
that  music  as  it  were,  his  thoughts  flow  in  that 
eweet  rhyme  of  Tennyson — 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Kinj;  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease. 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ■ 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  ia  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand: 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land. 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

One  more  glance  across  the  hills  —a  sigh  stifled 
among  the  heartstrings,  and  calmly  and  slowly 
he  walks  in  the  midst  of  his  people — his  cheek 
more  flushed  than  its  wont,  and  his  eye  fuller  of 
troubled  light,  but  never  before  dwelt  such  mov- 
ing eloquence  on  his  lip.  He  had  gathered  up 
all  his  wasting  energies,  and  in  his  words  was 
the  power  of  one  newly  baptized  with  the  spirit 
of  grace.  Even  his  presence  seemed  to  have  in 
it  to-day  a  spell  of  mastery,  and  the  hush  was 
intense  when  he  arose  and  read,  with  what  a 
depth  of  meaning  and  terrible  pathos,  the  hymn — 


And  are  we,  wi:etohes,  yet  alive? 

And  do  we  yet  rebel  ? 
'Tis  boundless,  'tis  amazing  love, 

That  bears  us  up  from  hell. 

Lord,  we  have  long  abused  thy  love. 

Too  long  indulged  our  sin  ; 
Our  aching  hearts  now  bleed  to  see 

What  rebels  we  have  been. 

No   more,  ye  lusts,  shall  you  command, 

No  more  will  we  obey  ; 
Stretch  out,  0  God,  thy  conquering  hand. 

And  drive  thy  foes  away. 

Then  came  the  prayer,  which  mere  words  may 
not  portray — it  was  tiie  spirit  of  it  that  was  felt, 
and  not  the  form  that  was  heard— no  dashing  of 
the  waves  of  sorrow  against  the  throne — no  im- 
portunate demands  pressing  open,  as  it  were,  the 
beautiful  gates  of  Paradise,  but  the  tremulous 
whisper  of  a  soul  that  feels  its  ruin  and  clings 
only  in  hope  to  the  cross  and  the  power  of  hin 
mercy,  whose  last  sweet  plea  from  the  agony  of 
insulted  sorrows 

O'er  death's  night 

Passed  like  the  transit  of  the  morning  star. 
And  for  a  moment  in  the  bosom  of  hell 
Cooled  the  red  burning  like  a  cloud  of  dev,-. 

Bat  in  the  sermon,  the  zeal  in,  and  devotion  to, 
the  things  which  pertain  to  immortality  burned 
with  the  chiefest  glory.  From  the  12th  chapter 
of  2d  Corinthians  he  read  : 

"And  lest  I  should  be  exalted  above  measure 

through  the  abundance  of  the  revelations,  there 

was  given  to  me  a  thorn  in  the  flesh,  the  messen- 

i  ger  of  Satan  to  buffet  me,  lest  I  should  be  exalted 

;  above  measure.     For  this   thing   1   besought  the 

j  Lord  thrice,  that  it  might  depart  from  me.     And 

1  he  said  unto  me,  My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee; 

;  for  my  strength  is   made   perfect  in  weakness. 

i  Most  gladly,  therefore,  will  I  rather  glory  in  my 

infirmities,  that  the  power  of  Christ  may  rest  upon 

me." 

How  upon  the  waves  of  failh  he  arose  above  the 
sorrows  and  afllictions  of  life—what  little  things 
they  were  !  What  nothings  in  the  glory  of  the 
final  triumph  !  The  congregation  was  swayed 
and  stirred  like  waves  to  the  touches  of  the  strong 
■^yrind- now  they  heard  the  muffled  footsteps  in 
the  corridors  of  crime,  and  shrank  frighted  from 
the  lightest  thought  of  wrong ;  and  now  the  griev- 
ed Spirit  made  once  more  the  sweet  offer  of  mercy, 
and  dying  hope  revived.  The  light  of  the  diviner 
world  seemed  streaming  abroad  over  this ;  fear 
jl  vanished,  and  trembling  hesitancy  changed  into 
fixed  resolve — though  all  the  world  forsake  thee, 
yet  will  I  not  forsake  thee,  was  the  language  of 
every  heart,  and  when  the  exhortation  was  fin- 
ished, not  one  bosom  there  would  have  shrunk 


166 


SOME   GREAT   WORK. 


from  the  flames  of  martyrdom— but  who  of  them 
all  dreamed  that  from  the  dim  ruins  of  the  bright- 
est hopes  of  mortality  came  the  eloquent  inspira- 
tion? 

And  day  was  over,  and  from  under  the  pale 
wings  of  the  twilight  came  the  stars.  At  the 
door  of  her  dark  and  lofty  house  Miriam  sat  alone. 
The  breeze  tried  to  kiss  up  the  crimson  to  her 
thin  cheek,  but  in  vain— and  the  flowers,  crushed 
under  her  feet,  sent  out  their  fragrance,  but  she 
heeded  it  not.  Her  hands  lay  idly  on  her  knees, 
and  her  thoughts  were  gone  across  the  seas  to  the 
benighted  lands  where  the  morning  of  Christianity 
has  but  faintly  dawned,  or  not  yet  broken  at  all. 
The  labors  of  the  missionary  are  something  worth, 
she  said.  How  glorious  to  break  in  pieces  the 
idols,  and  build  up  the  true  church— to  lift  the 
macerated  and  blind  worshipers  from  the  abase- 
ment of  the  dust,  and  give  them  to  lean  on  the 
arm  of  the  great  Jehovah!  Why  am  I  shut  away 
from  doing  good  ?  Ami  worthy,  O  Lord,  to  be 
tliy  handmaid— fain  would  I  serve  thee— give,  0 
o-ive  me  to  do  for  thee  some  great  work ! 

A  step  glides  through  the  moonlight,  and  a 
shadow  falls  over  the  gray  dew~a  soft  smile 
lights  up  the  face  of  Miriam,  making  it  more 
beautiful  than  its  wont,  as  her  hand  is  clasped  in 
that  of  the  village  pastor.     He  hears  not  the 
rustle  of  the  winds  through  the  wheat  field,  nor 
the  tremor  of  the  heavy  foliage,  nor  sees  above 
him  the  sky  like  a  great  blue  sea  with  lilies  all 
over  its  bosom,  gdden  and  red  and  white,  for 
star  differeth  from  star  in  glory  ;   but  Miriam 
hears  and  sees  it  all.     Yf  hy  was  the  young  man 
there  ?     He  had  stilled  the  earthly  passion  in  his 
heart — haply  the  conquest  was  too  easy — haply 
it  was  not  so  perfect  as  he  thought — once  more 
he  would  measure  himself  against  temptation. 
O  earth,  tlie  hold  of  thy  beauty  is  strong  upon 
us,  and  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  is  greater  than 
our  poor  resolves ;  and  he  but  waked  again  the 
torture  of  unsatisfied  thirst.     The  vine  that  has 
fallen  in  the  dust  with  the  vigorous  support  hard 
bv  upon  which  it  would  fain  fasten  its  tendrils, 
but  with  no  hand  to  lift  it  up,  might  be  his  em- 
blem.    And  yet  he  spoke  not  of  love,  nor  now 
nor  ever — that  cold,  steady  hand,  like  an  all- 
pitiless  demon's,  held  him  back.    And  yet,  in  the 
bosom  of  the  maiden  the  fountain  was  troubled 
by  his  smile,  and  she  longed  to  rock  his  sorrows 
to  rest  upon  her  heart ;  but  the  humble  duties 
that  contented  him  could  not  fill  the  measure  of 
her  ambition.     The  comfort  of  his  people,  she 
said,  must  be  to  him  enough,  nor  could  I,  if  I 
would,  snatch  him  from  the  borders  of  the  grave. 
The  delusion  gave  way  too  late. 


Light  after  light  went  out  from  the  cottage 
windows — the  silence  deepened  and  deepene 
and  the  moon  seemed  to  look  reproachfully  from 
the  clouds,  while  in  the  shadow  of  the  dark  house 
the  young  man  lingered  still.  The  bell  strikes 
the  half  hour  next  the  midnight,  and,  witli  the 
sudden  energy  we  sometimes  gather  from  despair, 
he  rises  and  stands  erect,  but  gazing  still  on  the 
pallid  and  statue-cold  beauty  before  him. 

The  white  hand  of  Miriam  reaches  softly  to- 
ward him — doth  she  seek  to  detain  him  ?  trem- 
bling with  delicious  fear,  he  bends  to  her  whis- 
pered words — he  does  well,  she  says,  to  heed  the 
admonitions  of  his  unequal  strength  and  many 
duties,  and  seek  rest.  Mockery  of  mockeries — 
for  him  there  was  no  more  rest.  The  arm  that 
was  just  clasping  her  to  his  bosom  dropped  para- 
lyzed away,  and  the  kiss  that  was  falling  to  her 
forehead  burned  back  upon  his  lips.  One  look 
of  reproachful  agony — a  farewell  tremulous  as 
though  a  careless  hand  crushed  his  heart-strings, 
and  the  last  torture  humanity  may  sufi'er  had 
been  suffered,  and  Miriam  was  alone.  Her  hands 
lie  idly  upon  her  knees  again,  and  her  thought 
stretches  from  the  certain  and  palpable  to  the 
dim  and  impalpable,  as  the  shadow  stretches 
into  the  night.  She  hears  not  the  echo  of  a 
broken  heart  that  goes  from  tlie  thick  darkness 
of  the  midnight,  wailing  and  wandering  toward 
the  immortal  world.  She  hears  not,  for  the  hush 
is  broken  by  the  prayer — Give  me,  O  Lord,  to  do 
for  thee  some  great  work  ! 

The  brown  and  yellow  liaze  hangs  like  rust 
along  the  edges  of  the  sky — the  roses  are  blown 
away  from  the  lap  of  tlie  summer,  the  ripe  fruit 
drops  from  the  orchard  boughs,  and  the  bees 
creep  out  into  the  sun  and  lie  in  ridges,  golden 
and  black,  about  the  hive — their  work  is  done. 
The  beating  of  the  flail  sounds  from  the  thresh- 
ing floor,  and  tlie  chaff  drifts  away  on  the  winds 
like  mist.  The  fearless  boy  climbs  the  tall- 
stemmed  tree  like  a  ladder,  and  shakes  the  ripe 
nuts  into  the  lap  of  the  laughing  little  girl.  The 
white  husks  lie  thick  along  the  corn-field,  and  the 
sleek  heifer  presses  impatiently  to  the  fence, 
seeing  the  heaps  of  full  eared  corn  and  bundles 
of  dry  blades.  Southward  over  the  hills  flocks 
of  birds  are  drifting  all  day  long— the  seeds  drop 
from  the  withered  pods,  and  the  down  of  the 
thistle  sails  noiselessly  about. 

It  is  not  the  Sabbath,  but  the  door  of  the  vil- 
lage church  is  wide  open,  and  across  the  hills 
and  along  the  meadows,  from  the  old-fashioned 
homestead  and  the  white-washed  cottage,  the 
people  are  coming  thither  with  downcast  eyes 
and  thoughtful  steps. 


APOSTROPHE   TO  NIAGARA, 


16T 


The  trees  stand  naked  or  faded  about  the  par- 
sonage, that  seems  to-day  very  lonesome  and 
still — the  books  lie  unopened  on  the  table,  tlie 
study-chair  is  vacant,  and  strange  faces  and  hush- 
ed steps  are  in  the  house — whisper  answers  to 
wliisper,  but  no  one  asks  where  the  pastor  is  gone. 

The  slow  chiming  of  the  church-bell  has  in  it 
an  awful  solemnity — even  the  life-long  prayer  of 
Miriam  is  still,  as  she  hearkens,  and  leaving  her 
lofty  house,  her  eyes  fill  witli  tears,  and  a  shadow 
dark  as  death  and  silent  as  the  grave  sweeps 
across  her  future,  as  she  answers  its  call.  Pick- 
axes and  spades  lean  against  the  larch  in  the 
church-yard,  and  close  by  there  is  a  great  heap 
of  yellow  mould.     The  village  pastor  is  dead. 

The  dense  throng  have  more  than  filled  the 
house,  and  many  are  standing  about  the  open 
door  and  at  the  windows ;  but  as  the  step  of 
Miriam  falls  on  the  threshold,  all  make  way  for 
her,  and  the  kindly  and  pious  elder,  who  has  long 
mourned  what  he  deems  a  soul  far  astray  or 
darkly  rebellious,  takes  her  trembling  hand  and 
leads  her  close  to  the  dead.  How  still  it  is !  so 
still  that  you  may  hear  the  wind  as  it  stirs  the 
heavy  pall  about  the  coffin.  The  locks  are  silver 
that  stream  above  the  sacred  page  today,  and 
the  voice  falters  with  the  cares  and  sorrows  of 
many  years  that  reads  for  the  departed  the  psalm : 

"  Asleep  in  Jesus  !  blessed  sleep. 

From  which  none  ever  wake  to  weep — 
A  calm  and  undisturbed  repose, 
Unbroken  by  the  last  of  foes. 
Asleep  in  Jesns  I   far  from  thee 
Thy  kindred  and  their  graves  may  be  ; 
But  thine  is  still  a  blessed  sleep. 
From  ■which  none  ever  wake  to  weep." 

Placidly,  sweetly,  he  talked  of  the  good  man 
gone — of  the  beautiful  consecration  of  his  life 
and  the  glory  of  his  death — God's  hour  of  answer 
to  a  life  of  prayer.  He  pointed  to  the  hills  white 
with  cottages,  the  morality,  thrift,  and  intelli- 
gence of  their  inhabitants — the  prevalent  spirit 


of  piety — the  growth  and  engagedness  of  tfie 
Sabbath-school — the  fathers  and  mothers,  and 
maidens  and  youths,  and  little  children,  upon 
whose  foreheads  his  hands  had  laid  the  bap- 
tismal waters ;  and  the  many  hardened  sinners 
wooed  from  the  steep  edge  of  perdition  by  his 
mild  and  unwearied  persuasions.  The  bright  ex- 
ample of  his  life,  the  preacher  said,  had  been 
more  eloquent  than  words — he  had  gone  in  and 
out  before  his  people  in  meekness  and  simplicity, 
doing  the  good  things  which  his  hand  found  ft> 
do  By  what  cords  of  love  this  broken  and 
mourning  people  were  drawn  hither  today,  anil 
how  hard  it  is  to  give  up  even  the  pale  uncon- 
scious dust — liow  hard  to  look  upon  the  still, 
fixed  smile,  that  briglitens  not,  as  it  was  used, 
when  tliey  approach — how  hard  to  put  the  hands 
that  first  led  them  to  the  cross,  under  the  wind- 
ing-sheet! He  was  your  guide,  your  example, 
your  shepherd  that  kept  all  your  lambs  from 
wandering — that  made  you  brave  to  front  the 
tempter — strong  for  the  time  of  trial,  and  good 
to  meet  death.  Maply  he  had  sorrows,  for  who 
of  us  all  have  not  ?  but  he  threw  not  their  sha- 
dows over  you,  and  on  tlie  ruins  of  broken  hopee 
he  climbed  to  gather  the  radiance  of  eternity. 
0,  he  was  worthy  of  all  your  love — he  was  wor- 
thy of  the  tears  that  flow  for  him,  and  of  the 
benedictions  that  hover  about  his  grave — worthy 
of  the  covenant  you  make  with  your  hearts  to 
stand  up,  if  need  were,  in  the  judgment  and  tes- 
tify to  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  that  he  hath  done 
a  great  work ! 

The  day  was  over,  and  the  clay  was  heaped  to 
a  smooth  level  mound,  and  the  sorrowful  peopls 
returned  to  tlieir  houses,  desolate,  yet  not  without 
hope.  O  Miriam,  Miriam,  wliy  refusest  thoa 
to  be  comforted  i  Does  the  crown  of  thy  lo-va 
settle  on  the  brows  of  tlie  dead,  and  hushest  thou 
now  the  frequent  prayer  for  that  tliou  feelest 
truly,  as  thou  musest  of  his  life  of  duty  and  his 
death  of  peace,  he  hath  done  a  Great  Work  \ 


APOSTROPHE    TO    NIAG2VRA. 


BT      HORACE      DRESSER      ESQ., 


Faith  trembleth  at  thy  passing,  mighty  flood  \ 
And  from  the  secret  chambers  of  the  deep 
The  voices  of  thy  many  waters  keep, 
In  thunder-tones  and  wild  majestic  mood. 
One  everlasting  anthem  praising  God  I 

Thy  fearful  pathway  leads  thee  o'er  a  steep, 
Which  thou  thyself  alone  dost  dare  to  leap  I 


I  feel  to  worship  here  ;  methiiiks  TU  seat 
Me  on  the  beetling  cliffs  above  the  brink 
Of  thy  abyss  ;  there  ruminate  and  think  : — 

How  restless  is  thy  surge  beneath  my  feet '. 

For  ever  rolling,  rushing  on  to  meet 

Old  ocean's  boundless  depths,  for  aye  to  sink 
Into  oblivion  whence  we  mortals  shrink  ! 


GEMS  FROM   ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 


BY    AN    ADMIKER. 


There  is  a  fine  gradation  and  procession  in  the 
things  of  nature,  and  many  are  the  steps  of  the 
golden  Btair  which  leads  up  to  the  highest.  The 
material  forms  with  which  we  are  conversant, 
are  symbols  enclosing  a  more  transcendent 
beauty  ;  and  the  life  within  us  is,  in  its  turn,  a 
symbol  or  adumbration  of  the  primal  archetypes. 
To  unfold  it,  therefore — to  lay  open  its  leaves  and 
filaments,  that  the  light  which  is  congenial  to  it 
may  fall  upon  it,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  upon  the 
opening  flower — is  the  highest  and  noblest  of 
endeavors,  inasmuch  as  the  result  is  the  highest 
and  noblest.  The  best  poets  of  the  day,  and 
none  of  them  more  so  than  Mrs.  Browning,  dv/ell 
long  and  lovingly  in  the  recesses  of  our  nature, 
laying  their  hand  upon  human  love,  upon  the 
household  affections,  upon  sin  and  the  counter- 
acting aspirations,  upon  the  tangled  yarn  of  good 
and  evil  in  the  web  of  life;  and  as,  with  songs  of 
wailing  or  exultation,  as  in  sorrow  or  in  joy,  in 
shadow  or  in  sunshine,  they  tread  those  deep  re- 
cesses which  lie  so  near,  yet  are  such  mysteries 
to  us  all,  we  feel  that  we  are  in  the  presence  of 
great  spirits,  yet,  withal,  of  our  own  nature  and 
kindred ;  we  feel  an  unwonted  exaltation  in  their 
presence  ;  harsh  contradictions  are  smoothed 
down,  and  elements  of  afiinity  present  themselves 
where  previously  we  saw  nothing  but  everlasting 
antagonism ;  we  begin  to  be  reconciled  to  loss 
and  suffering,  by  perceiving,  in  another  than  the 
mere  dogmatic  light,  that  it  is  the  only  medium 
of  perfecting  an  aberrant  nature ;  and  we  go  forth 
to  the  work  and  conflict  of  life  purer  in  heart  and 
stronger  in  spirit,  in  the  strength  of  those  mediat- 
ing spirits  who  have  taught  us  to  know,  and  given 
us  to  feel,  more  than  we  knew  before  of  what  is 
meant  by  mediation. 

We  have  indicated  rather  tlian  defined  the 
scope  and  spirit  of  Mrs.  Browning's  poetry.  Her 
poems  are  sermons,  but  such  sermons !  Reflect, 
Uiat  she  is  possessed  of  varied  learning,  and  is 
deeply  read  in  classic  lore ;  that,  to  a  masculine 
energy,  attempered  and  sublimated  by  womanly 
affection,  she  adds  a  deep  religious  feeling,  and 
you  will  have  some  conception  as  to  what  sort  of 
sermons  hers  are.  In  listening  to  them,  you  are 
conscious  of  the  double  process  of  enlightenment 


and  feeling.  The  mist  rolls  away,  and  the  warm 
sunbeams  fall  upon  you.  While  you  know  more, 
you  love  more,  and  the  process  of  knowledge  is 
the  process  of  reconcilement.  Her  texts  are  cho- 
sen from  both  sides  of  nature,  and  from  both  sides 
of  human  life.  Her  aim  is,  to  reconcile  contra- 
rieties ;  from  sin  and  sorrow,  from  darkness  and 
suffering,  to  rise  to  purity  and  joy,  to  the  glory 
and  brightness  of  the  land  where  there  is  no  need 
of  the  sun.  Mere  objective  beauty  glows  at  her 
touch,  and  you  would  confess  her  a  true  poet, 
though  she  had  done  no  more ;  but  this  is  only 
the  tuning  of  her  harp.  It  is  but  the  wand  she 
conjures  with;  the  miracle  by  which  she  arrests 
attention.  Her  ultimate  purpose  lies  far  beyond ; 
or,  rather,  without  purpose  at  all,  it  is  the  neces- 
sity and  tendency  of  her  nature  and  genius  to 
make  the  forms  of  things,  the  manifestations  of 
natural  grace  and  beauty,  the  stepping-stones  to  a 
temple,  in  which,  when  she  leads  you  in,  you  find 
the  unveiled  presences  of  the  outer  shadows,  and 
have  a  glimpse  of  the  divine  Schekinah. 

But  it  is  time  we  now  proceed  to  illustrate 
these  generalities  by  special  reference  to  the 
poems  whose  titles  we  have  prefixed  to  them. 
The  incident  of  the  "  Lost  Bower"  is  brief  and 
simple.  Once  upon  a  summer's  day,  a  little  girl 
wandered  into  a  wood,  and  found  in  it  a  beautiful 
bower,  which  filled  her  child-heart  witli  over- 
flowing gladness;  but,  when  she  returned  next 
day,  she  could  not  find  it,  and  never  found  it 
more.  This  is  all.  On  this  is  built  a  poem  of 
seventy-six  stanzas ;  and  we  observe  that  a  writer 
in  one  of  our  monthly  magazines,  of  high  reputa- 
tion, makes  merry  at  the  disproportion  between 
the  basis  and  the  superstructure.  But  on  as  nar- 
row bases  are  built  many  things  of  larger  propor- 
tions than  a  poem  of  this  length.  A  like  incident 
colors  the  poetry  of  every  poetic  life ;  and  the 
prose  of  every  prosaic  life  is  rendered  more  pro- 
saic, because  every  poor  possessor  of  it,  once  up- 
on a  time,  found  and  sported  in  a  beautiful  bower, 
and  went  back  at  another  time,  and  missed  it, 
and  never  found  it  more.  It  is  a  tlierae  old  as 
the  expulsion  from  Eden,  and  wide  as  the  human 
race.  It  appeals  to  universal  sympathies,  for 
all  have  to  regret  a  lost  bower  in  some  wood  or 


GEMS  OF  MODERN  ENGLISH  POETRY. 


169 


other.  It  is  a  theme,  therefore,  which  needed  no 
inventive  genius  to  find  it  out,  and  the  poet  who 
deals  with  it  must  be  judged  solely  by  the  amount 
and  nature  of  the  new  light  which  he  sheds 
upon  it. 

"In  the  pleasant  orchard  closes, 

'  God  Mess  all  our  gains,'  say  we ; 
But,  '  May  God  bless  all  our  losses,' 
Better  suits  with  our  degree." 

On  this  key-note  the  song  opens,  and  we  feel  at 
once  that  it  is  a  plaintive  minor.  We  have  then 
a  sketch  of  that  pleasant  motherland  of  infancy 
and  childhood,  with  its  '"summer  snows  of  apple- 
blossoms  running  up  from  glade  to  glade,"  which 
reposes  among  beauty  and  regrets  in  a  quiet,  sa- 
cred corner  of  every  one's  memory.  There  is  the 
childhood's  valley,  and  in  the  valley  is  the  wood, 
and  in  the  wood  is  the  bower,  and  "over  all,  in 
choral  silence,  the  hills  look  you  their  all  hail !" 
The  child's  solitary  journey  to  the  wood  is  de- 
scribed, and  the  first  bursting  of  the  bower  upon 
the  entranced  vision : 

"  As  I  enter'd,  mosses  hushing, 
Stole  all  noises  from  my  foot; 
And  a  green  elastic  cushion, 
Clasp'd  within  the  linden's  root, 
Took  me  in  a  chair  of  silence,  very  rare  and  absolute." 

Questioning  what  and  how  it  wa?,  there  "  came  a 
sound,  a  sense  of  music,  which  was  rather  felt 
than  heard," 

"  Softly,  finely,  it  inwound  me, 
From  the  world  it  shut  me  in, 
Like  a  fountain  falling  round  me, 
Which,  with  silver  waters  thin, 
Clips  a  little  marble  naiad,  sitting  smilingly  within," 

Here  now  was  the  perfection  of  communion  with 
nature ;  the  beauty  without  touched  the  sense  of 
beauty  within  ;  and,  for  tlie  moment,  enjoyment 
was  complete.  It  was  the  terminal  and  highest 
point  of  a  series;  but  there  was  more  beyond, 
and  to  the  beyond  the  rapt  enthusiast  must  go — 

"  I  rose  up  in  exaltation, 

And  an  inward  trembling  heat, 
And  (it  seemed)  in  geste  of  passion, 
Dropp'd  the  music  to  my  feet, 
Like  a  garment  rustling  downwards — such  a  silence  fol- 
lowed it. 

Heart  and  head  beat  through  the  quiet. 

Full  and  heavily,  though  slower; 
In  the  song,  I  think,  and  by  it, 
Mystic  presences  of  power 
Had  upsnatch'd  me  to  the  timeless,  then  retum'd  me  to  the 
hour." 


She  left  the  bower,  she  left  the  wood,  she  left  the 
sanctuary,  and  went  out  to  the  great  temple, 
which  yet,  for  a  little  while,  was  all  a  sanctuary. 


*'  Oh,  the  golden-hearted  daisies 

WitnessVl  there,  before  my  youth. 
To  the  truth  of  things,  with  praises 
To  the  bea.uty  of  the  truth. 
And  I  woke  to  nature's  real,  laughing  joyfully  for  both.'" 

Light-hearted,  yet  full  hearted,  she  vowed  that 
every  day  she  would  return  to  the  bower ;  and 
she  kept  her  vow;  but  "next  morning  all  had 
vanished,  or  my  wandering  missed  the  place,"  and 
"  I  never  more  upon  it  turned  my  mortal  coun- 
tenance." It  was  the  beginning  of  her  losses,  a 
list  or  specimen  of  which  she  gives  us  : 

"  I  have  lost  the  dream  of  doing, 
And  tlie  other  dream  of  clone — 
The  lirst  spring  in  the  pursuing. 
The  first  pride  in  the  begun  ; 
First  recoil  from  incompletion  in  the  face  of  what  is  won 

Exaltations  in  the  far  light, 

Where  some  cottage  only  is. 
Mild  dejections  in  the  starlight. 
Which  the  sadder-hearted  miss. 
And  the  child-cheek  blushing  scarlet,  for  the  very  shame  ot 
bliss. 

I  have  lost  the  sound  child-sleeping, 

Which  the  thunder  could  not  break  ; 
Something,  too,  of  the  strong  leaping 
Of  the  stag-like  heart  awake, 
Which  the  pale  is  low  for  keeping  in  the  road  it  ought  tr 
take." 

But  the  song  must  not  close  thus;  at  least,  it 
must  not,  and  will  not,  close  thus  to  the  spirit 
who  has  rightly  undergone  the  discipline  of  the 
losses  which  the  loss  of  the  bower  prefigured  and 
necessitated.  The  time  was  long  past,  and  the 
place  far  away ;  the  discipline  of  life  lay  in  the 
scene  between  the  tlten  and  the  71010 ;  but,  shut- 
ting her  eyes,  and  calling  upon  "  unchanging  re- 
collections," the  bower  rose  up  before  the  spirit's 
eye,  fresh  and  fair  as  it  first  appeared  to  the 
child's  vision.     Here  is  the  exultant  finale  : 

"  Is  the  bower  lost  then  ?    Who  sayeth 
That  the  bower  indeed  is  lost  ? 
Hark  1   my  spirit  in  it  prayeth, 
Through  the  solstice  and  the  frost, 
And  the  prayer  preserves  it  greenly,  to  the  last  and  utter- 
most— 

Till  another  open  for  me. 

In  God's  Eden-land  unknown  ; 
With  an  angel  at  the  doorway. 
White  with  gazing  at  his  throne, 
And  a  saint's  voice  in  the  palm-trees,  singing,  Allisuiffr — 
and  won .'"' 

The  "  Brown  Rosar}-"  is  pitched  on  a  higher 
key,  and  takes  in  a  wider  range  of  thought ;  but 
it  also  is  a  song  of  losses,  and  of  gains  through 
losses.  In  the  "Lost  Bower"  we  have  delineated, 
under  the  gui.-ie  of  a  child's  story,  the  disenchant- 
ing process  tlirough  which  nature  passes,  or  seems 
to  pass,  as  it  presents  itself  day  after  day,  and 


110 


GEMS  OF  MODERN  ENGLISH  POETRY. 


year  after  year,  to  the  eye  and  lieart  which  are 
incessantly  changed  and  modified  by  the  ever- 
shifting  phenomena  and  events  of  time.  The 
theme  and  moral  of  the  "  Brown  Rosary"  are  in- 
dicated in  these  lines: 

"Then  breaking  into  tears — 'Dear  God  1'  she  cried;  'and 

must  we  see 
All  blissful  things  depart  from  its, or  ere  we  go  to  Thee!''  '' 

It  is  a  sermon  on  the  text — "  He  that  loveth 
father  or  mother,  wife  or  children,  more  than  me, 
is  not  worthy  of  me."  It  has  more  of  incident 
than  the  "  Lost  Bower,"  and  its  structure  and 
motion  are  more  diversified.  Orona  was  be- 
trothed to  a  noble  and  generous  lover,  and  both 
seemed  to  be  well  fitted  for  eacii  other.  Tliis 
liuman  love  was  all  in  all  to  Orona.  She  could 
not  see  beyond  it ;  she  could  not  live  without  it ; 
and  for  it  she  was  willing  to  sacrifice  the  love  and 
liope  of  heaven.  This  mood  of  mind  is  brought 
out  with  admirable  artistic  skill  by  the  machinery 
of  a  dream,  in  which  Orona,  her  dead  father,  an- 
gels, and  the  ghost  of  a  false  nun,  who,  lost  her- 
self by  earthly  love,  tempts  Orona  to  a  like  ruin, 
are  interlocutors.  A  little  brother  of  Orona's  is 
also  introduced,  who  is  supposed  to  be  conversant 
with  the  whole  matter,  and  plays  the  explanatory 
part  of  the  chorus  in  the  Greek  tragedies.  Orona 
the  betrothed,  was  doomed  to  die,  as  we  learn 
from  the  dream.     She  says  : 

'■  VVe  heard,  beside  the  heavenly  gate,  the  angels  muminr- 

ing  : 
"We  heard  them  say,  '  Put  day  to  day,  and  count  the  days 

to  seven, 
And  God  will  draw  Orona  up  the  golden  stairs  to  heaven  ; 
And  yet  the  evil  ones  have  leave  that  purpose  to  defer, 
For  if  she  has  no  need  of  Him,  he  has  no  need  of  Aer.' 

Evil  Spirit. 
Speak  out  to  me — spealc  bold  and  free. 

Orona  in  sleep. 

And  then  I  heard  thee  say — 
'I  count  upon  my  rosary  brown   the  hours  thou  hast  to 

stay  ! 
Yet  God  permits  us  evil  ones  to  put  by  that  decree, 
For  if  thou  hast  no  need  of  Him,  lie  has  no  need  of  thee  ; 
And  if  thou  wilt  forego  the  sight  of  angels,  verily, 
Thy  true  love,  gazing  on  thy  face,  shall  guess  what  an- 
gels be.'  " 

Orona  did  not  choose  the  better  part.     Poor 
girl  !  her  human  love  overcame  her  : — 

'•  Love  feareth  death.    1  was  no  child  ;  I  was  betrothed 

that  day : 
I  wore  a  troth-kiss  on  my  lips  I  could  not  give  away. 
IIow  could  I  bear  to  lie  content  and  still  beneath  a  stone, 
And  feel  mine  own  betrothed  go  by — alas,  no  more  mine 

own  ! — 
Go  leading  by,  in  wedding  pomp,  some  lovely  lady  brave, 
With  cheeks  that  blush'd  as  red  as  rose,  while  mine  were 


cold 


in  grave  ; 


How  could  I  bear  to  sit  in  heaven,  on  e'er  so  high  a  throne, 
And  hear  him  say  to  her — to  her .' — that  else  he  loveth  none  ? 
Though  e'er  so  high  I  sate  above,  though  e'er  so  low  he  spake, 
As  clear  as  thunder  I  should  hear  the  new  oath  he  might 

take- 
That  hers,  forsooth,  are  heavenly  eyes — ah,  me  !  while  very 

dim 
Some  heavenly  eyes  (indeed  of  heaven)  would  darken  down 

to  him.'' 

Orona  being  thus  overcome,  she  vowed  this 
fearful  vow,  which  had  power  to  defer  the  purpose 
of  the  good  angels.  She  addresses,  in  sleep,  the 
ghost  of  the  nun — 

"  I  vow'd  upon  thy  rosary  brown — and,  till  such  vow  should 

brealt, 
A  pledge  always  of  living  days  'twas  hung  around  my 

neck — 
I  vow'd  to  thee  on  rosary  (dead  father,  look  not  so  1), 
I  would  not  thank  God  in  my  weal  nor  seek  God  in  my 

wo .'" 

Tlie  current  of  human  love  was  now  free  to  take 
its  course.  The  bridal  morn  arrived.  The  little 
brother  mixed  in  the  joyous  throng,  but  not  as 
part  of  it,  not  as  a  happy  heart.  On  the  way  to 
the  church,  and  again  in  the  church,  he  reproach- 
ed his  sister  with  wearing  on  her  bosom  a  brown 
rosary.  The  mother  frowned  on  her  boy  ;  the 
bridegroom  laughed  ;  the  priest  said  the  boy  was 
wild,  and  approved  the  piety  of  the  bride;  and 
"  the  maiden's  lips  trembled  with  smiles  shut 
within."  The  ceremony  proceeded.  A  mocking 
laugh  broke  in  upon  it,  but  none  could  find  out 
who  the  mockers  were.  The  priest  was  per- 
plexed.   He  could  not  name  the  great  name — 

"And  each  saw  the  bride,  as  if  no  bride  she  were, 
Gazing  cold  at  the  priest,  without  gesture  of  prayer. 
As  he  read  from  the  psalter." 

At  length  the  rite  was  finished,  and  "  they 
who  knelt  down  together,  arise  up  as  one." 
Orona's  vow  renouncing  heaven  has  won  for  her 
human  love.  But  only  for  a  moment.  The  cup 
was  lifted  to  her  lips  only  to  be  dashed  to  the 
ground.  The  bridegroom  glared  blank  and  wide. 
He  kissed  his  bride,  but  his  lips  stung  her  with 
cold.  He  called  her  his  own  wife,  and  "  fell 
stark  at  her  feet  in  the  word  he  was  saying  : " — 

"She  look'd  in  his  face  earnest  long,  as,  in  sooth, 

There  were  hope  of  an  answer,  and  then  kiss'd  his  mouth  ; 
And,  with  head  on  his  bosom,  wept,  wept  bitterly— 
'  Now,  0  God,  take  pity,  take  pity  on  me  ! — 

God,  hear  my  beseeching  !' 
She  was  'ware  of  a  shadow  that  cross'd  where  she  lay — 
She  was  'ware  of  a  presence  that  wither'd  the  day  ; 
Wild,  she  sprang  to  her  feet — '  I  surrender  to  Thee 
The  broken  vow's  pledge,  the  accursed  rosary  : 

I  am  ready  for  dying  :"  " 


/ 


THEY   FADE. 


171 


Time's  enchantments  ■were  now  broken ;  and, 
in  this  total  eclipse  of  human  love  and  hope, 
Orona  first  beheld  the  day-spring  of  the  love  that 
is  divine.  We  have  the  moral  of  the  poem  in 
these  her  last  words  : — 

"  She  spoke  with  passion  after  pause— '  And  were  it  •wisely- 
done, 
If  -we  -who  cannot  gaze  above,  should  walk  the  earth  alone  ? 
If  we  whose  virtue  is  so  weak,  should  have  a  will  so  strong, 
And  stand  blind  on  the  rocks  to  choose  the  right  path  from 

the  wrong  ?^ 
To  choose,  perhaps,  a  love-lit  hearth  instead  of  love  and 

heaven  ; 
A  single  rose  for  a  rose-tree,  which  beareth  seven  times 

seven  ; 
A  rose  that  droppeth  from  the  hand,  that  fadeth  in  the 

breast. 
Until,  in  grieving  for  the  worst,  we  learn  what  is  the  best.' 
Then   breaking  into  tears — '  Dear  God  1'  she  cried  ;  '  and 

must  we  see 
All  blissful  things  depart  from  MS,  or  ere  we  go  to  Tuee? 
We  cannot  guess  thee  in  the  wood,  or  hear  thee  in  the 

wind  : 
Our  cedars  must  fall  round  us  ere  wc  see  thelight  behind. 
Ay  sooth,  we  feel  too  strong  in  weal  to  need  thee  on  that 

road ; 
But  wo  being  come,  the  soul  is  dumb  that  crieth  not  on 
God.'" 

We  have  noticed  these  two  poems  together, 
because  we  think  the  one  has  its  completeness  in 
the  other,  and  both  are  required  to  the  full  de- 
velopment of  the  leading  thought  which  runs 
through  them.  In  both  we  have  an  exhibition  of 
beautiful  and  lovely  things — lovely,  and  deserv- 
ing to  be  loved,  because  they  are  beautiful  and 
true.    In  both,  we  are  taught  that  this  beauty  is 


not  of  the  highest  order  ;  and  that  if,  while  lov- 
ing it,  we  do  not  stretch  forward  to  the  love  of  a 
higher  beauty,  our  idols  will  become  dim,  will 
cease  to  fill  our  hearts,  or  will  be  dashed   to 
pieces  before  our  eyes.    Thus  it  is  with  nature, 
as  she  presents  herself  to  the  young,  susceptible 
heart ;  and  thus  it  is  with  that  higher  phase  of 
the  beautiful  which  comes  in  the  fascinations  of 
young  affection.     We  cannot  love  the  one  or  the 
other  too  well,  if,  at  the  same  time,  we  keep  open 
heart  to  a  higher  love.   The  "  Lost  Bower  "  is  re- 
covered ;  the  "  splendor  in  the  grass,  the  glory  in 
the  flower,"  are  restored  by  the  "  prayer,"  which 
"  preserves  them  greenly  to  the  last  and  utter- 
most ;"  and  though,  in  the  "  Brown  Rosary,"  poor 
Orona's   human   love  was  blighted  beyond  the 
power  of  prayer  to  revive  it,  her  blighted  earthly 
hopes  were  the  soil  in  which  sprung  up  for  her 
the  first  heavenly  flowers. 

We  have  only  further  to  express  a  hope,  that 
the  extracts  we  have  laid  before  our  readers 
will  impress  them  with  a  favorable  opinion  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  poetry.  It  is  a  source  of  high 
and  pure  delight  to  us,  aud  we  wish,  tlierefore, 
that  its  gifted  authoress  were  better  known  in 
this  northern  land.  It  bears  the  test  of  re-peru- 
sal better  than  most  poetry  with  which  we  are 
acquainted  •,  which  comes,  we  presume,  from  the 
combination  and  fusion  of  strong  thought  with  the 
finest  feeling.  Itw  as  not  without  reason,  and 
Alfred  Tennyson  need  not  take  it  amiss,  that 
Mrs.  Browning  was  named  in  some  quarters  for 
the  laureateship,  on  the  death  of  Wordsworth. 


THEY   FADE. 


Thus  fade  they,  ever,  ever — 

To  fade  is  beauty's  doom  ; 
They  come  as  hopes,  but  never 

May  ripen  into  bloom. 
A  little  shadow  chills  them, 

The  sun  may  scorch  anon ; 
The  frost-wind  calls,  the  shadow  falls, 

And  the  beautiful  are  gone. 

0  hope  not  ever,  ever, 

A  bright  thing  shall  endure  ! 
If  it  be  but  "  very  beautiful," 

The  end  of  it  is  sure. 
Hopes  dear  as  life,  an  angel  wife— 

A  child— a  darling  one-- 
The  frost-wind  calls,  the  shadow  falls. 

And  the  beautiful  are  gone. 


Death  is  a  tasteful  spoiler, 

He  hath  a  dainty  eye — 
The  young  for  him,  and  the  light  of  limb, 

Tliough  weary  ones  are  by. 
He  will  steal  into  a  circle, 

With  his  shadow  darkening  on, 
And  the  frost-wind  calls,  and  the  shadow  falls, 

And  the  beautiful  are  gone. 

Yet  stay  thee  not,  oh,  angel ! 

It  is  thy  mission  here  ; 
And  all  are  thine,  by  grant  divine, 

The  fresh  leaf,  and  the  sere. 
But  only  come  for  me  too. 

With  the  beautiful  anon  ; 
I  will  journey  with  thee  gladly, 

To  know  where  they  are  gone. 


A   PLEA    FOR   OLD    TREES. 


TttERE  are  few  things  which  I  like  better  to 
meet  with  in  my  wandering?,  than  an  old  tree. 
When  I  see  one  upon  which  the  storms  of  some 
hundred  winters  have  wasted  themselves,  sad 
and  solemn  feelings  always  come  over  me  ;  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  linger  long  about  it ;  and  sometimes, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  could  even  prostrate 
myself  before  it,  in  mute  awe  and  admiration. 
It  is  not  that  there  is  anything  very  beautiful  in 
an  old  tree — sometimes  it  is  even  the  reverse ; 
and  when  I  pause  to  look  at  some  broken  trunk, 
•with  scarce  a  mark  of  verdure  remaining  on  it, 
my  friend  who  is  with  me  will  pull  my  arm,  and 
wonder  what  I  see  in  that  to  stare  at.  But  to 
me,  an  old  tree  brings  with  it  associations  of  a 
very  interesting  and  pleasing  character;  and  it  is 
for  these  that  I  love  to  look  upon  it,  and  feel  a 
kind  of  friendship  for  it. 

In  the  first  jjlace,  the  delightful  idea  of  con- 
stancy associates  itself  with  an  old  tree.  Amidst 
the  rush  and  push  of  this  world's  changes,  there 
it  has  remained  immovable  for  centuries;  and 
whilst  cities  have  crumbled  away,  and  kingdoms 
have  been  revolutionized,  and  great  empires  have 
risen  and  fallen,  it  has  "taken  root  downward, 
and  borne  fruit  upward,"  and,  year  by  year,  its 
branches  have  spread  themselves  overhead  as  a 
green  canopy,  and  it  has  helped  to  make  the 
face  of  nature  lovelier  and  more  beautiful.  There 
is  one  tree  in  my  neighborhood — I  think  it  is 
said  that  nine  hundred  years  have  rolled  their 
clouds  and  played  their  lightnings  over  it — under 
which  I  remember  gamboling  when  I  was  a 
child;  and,  though  many  changes  have  since 
then  come  over  me,  and  I  have  had  my  share — I 
think  sometimes,  as  I  suppose  most  people  do 
tnore  than  my  share — of  dark  days  and  sorrowful 
ones;  though  friends  whom  I  liad  loved  have 
forsaken  me,  and  some  have  turned  away  from 
me,  who  I  never  thought  would  have  done  so ;  I 
go  now  occasionally,  and  I  find  the  tree  un- 
altered : — 

Fo  was  it  Tivhenmy  life  be^^an  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  mau  :' 

the  marks  of  age,  perhaps,  are  more  apparent, 
but  it  smiles  upon  me  as  it  did  of  old ;  and  in 
recalling,  as  I  almost  can,  the  sweet  and  innocent 
thoughts  and  emotions  which  I  indulged  under 
it,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  dear  departed 


ones  with  whom  I  stood  at  its  feet,  I  can  almost 
bring  back  the  days  so  long  gone,  and  fancy  my- 
self a  boy  again.  And  I  am  not  the  only  one 
whom  this  old  tree  has  cheered  thus  and  encou- 
raged :  it  smiled  upon  others  before  it  smiled  on 
me ;  and  it  will  continue  to  smile  when  I  am 
gone  and  departed.  The  traveler  has  many  a 
time  looked  upon  it,  as  he  has  passed  the  vUlage 
in  which  it  stands ;  and  the  broken  down  soldier 
has  recognized  it  with  a  tear,  as  he  has  returned 
after  many  battles  to  the  quiet  home  of  his  boy- 
hood- For  many  a  year  the  swallow,  returning 
from  her  annual  visit  to  a  milder  climate,  has 
always  found  its  branches  ready  for  her  as  a  rest- 
ing-place ;  and  in  many  a  summer,  the  panting 
flocks  have  sought  and  found  under  it  a  grateful 
shade.  How  many  things  are  there  which  the 
world  has  less  cause  to  be  grateful  to  than  it  has 
to  an  old  tree  ! 

But  an  old  tree  has  always  associated  with  it 
thoughts  of  the  past.  How  many  persons  have 
gazed  upon  it  who  will  never  gaze  upon  it  again ; 
and  with  what  different  emotions  has  it  been 
gazed  upon  at  different  times,  and  by  different 
classes  of  character  !  The  noble  has  gazed  upon 
it  as  he  dashed  by  in  his  chariot ;  and  the  poor 
lame  beggar,  as  he  hobbled  past  on  his  crutch. 
Perhaps,  in  some  dark  night,  when  the  moon  was 
hidden  behind  the  clouds,  and  scarce  a  star  was 
seen  in  the  firmament,  and  the  cold  wind  blew, 
and  the  drizzling  rain  descended,  which  kept  all 
but  the  wicked  or  the  houseless  wanderer  within 
doors,  the  murderer  may  have  arranged  his  plot ; 
or  even  upon  the  very  ground  over  which  its 
shade  is  cast,  he  may  have  carried  it  into  execu- 
tion ;  and  the  old  tree  may  have  listened  to  the 
cry  of  the  murdered  man,  and  seen  his  blood  as 
it  mixed  with  the  green  gra«s  around  it.  Centu- 
ries ago,  the  Druid  may  imder  it  have  offered  his 
human  sacrifice ;  and  near  it,  may  have  rattled 
in  tlie  night  wind  the  chains  and  bones  which 
hung  upon  the  gibbet.  Wliat  tales  it  could  tell, 
if  it  could  but  speak  to  us,  of  England  in  the 
olden  time ;  and  what  revelations  could  it  furnish 
of  events,  but  now  imperfectly  pictured  forth  to 
us  in  the  fictions  of  history !  It  has  heard  the 
old  men  talk  of  Alfred  and  of  Canute,  of  the  Con- 
quest and  William  the  Norman  ;  the  tales  of  the 
Plantao-enets  and  the  Lancasters  have  been  told 
in  its  presence;  it  could  speak  to  us  of  Magna 


SPIRIT   OF   LOVE. 


1Y8 


Charta  and  of  the  Crusades,  of  Harry  the  Eightli 
and  the  Reformation ;  it  heard  men  talk  with 
glistening  eye  of  John  Ham])den  and  of  Crom- 
well, and  how  they  stood  up  gloriously  against 
tyrants,  and  overthrew  them  ;  it  listened  to  their 
deep  murmurs  at  the  tyranny  of  James,  and  to 
their  shouts  of  delight  at  the  accession  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange ;  it  heard  them  while  they 
talked  iu  whispers  of  the  Plague,  and  of  the 
number  dying  daily,  and  how  they  were  carried 
in  carts,  and  thrown  uncoffined  into  the  grave ; 
amd  it  has  seen  how  the  world,  amidst  its  ups  and 
downs,  has  been  going  forward  all  the  while ; 
and  how,  from  all  things  being  a  monopoly  of 
the  few,  the  rights  of  the  many  have  come  gra- 
dually to  be  recognized,  so  that  the  "greatest 
happiness  of  all"  is  likely  yet  to  become  the 
politics  of  the  world.  Old  tree !  wilt  thou  not 
open  thyself  to  us,  and  reveal  the  secrets  to 
which  thou  hast  been  a  party  ? 
There  is  one  lesson  which  we  may  very  properly 


learn  from  the  contemplation  of  an  old  tre«. 
Amidst  all  the  changes  which  have  occurred 
around  it,  and  notwithstanding  the  storms  which 
have  beaten  upon  it,  it  has  stood  firm  and  un- 
moved. How  calmly  it  has  witnessed  the  joys 
and  sorrows,  the  crimes  and  miseries,  of  tha 
world !  Oh,  to  be  as  patient  as  the  old  tcea 
amidst  the  storms  and  battles  of  life ;  ever, 
amidst  changes  and  uncertainties,  fulfilling  our 
high  duty  and  destiny  1 

I  never  like  to  see  an  old  tree  cut  down. 
When  the  woodman's  axe  approaches  it,  and  I 
observe  upon  it  the  mark  which  dooms  it  to 
destruction,  my  soul  protests  against  the  sacrilegie. 
It  seems  as  if  a  part  of  myself  were  gone,  when 
an  old  familiar  tree  is  removed — as  if  one  of  my 
ties  to  this  green  earth  were  snapped  asunder. 
But  perhaps  it  is  better  so.  My  friends  of  ^U 
kinds  are  dying  away ;  and  it  is  well  that  I 
should  sometimes  be  reminded  that  I  soon  must 
follow  them. 


SPIRIT    OF    LOVE. 


BY      M  R  I 


E  A  M  E  S 


•  The  spirit  of  love  floats  everywhere." 


Afar,  afar,  upon  the  wings  of  morning, 

I  send  the  spirit  of  my  love  to  thee, 
Beyond  the  seas,  where'er  thou  art  sojourning, 

O'er  utmost  earth,  remote  as  it  may  be  .' 

I  send  it  in  each  wandering  gale  unto  thee — 
Eaoh  whispering  tone  to  tell  of  vanished  hours  j 

I  send  it  in  the  voice  of  streams  to  woo  thee — 
In  the  soft  breath  of  odorous  leaves  and  flowers. 

In  the  light  stir  of  forest-boughs,  fast  filling 
My  list'ning  heart  with  memories  of  thee, 

I  send  the  spirit  of  my  deep  love,  thrilling 
Unto  thine  own  with  its  soul-melody. 

I  send  it  on  the  glancing  wings  that  hover 
bove  thee,  in  the  blue,  transparent  air; 


Eaoh  bird-note  echoing  on  thine  ear,  0,  rover, 
A  tender  message  to  thy  heart  shall  bear. 

The  crimson  morn — noontide — the  twilight  falling  ; 

Night,  with  the  steadfast  stars  we  love  so  well  j 
The  meek-eyed  moon  the  olden  times  recalling — 

In  each,  the  spirit  of  my  love  shall  dwell. 

I  send  it  in  the  beautiful,  which  liveth 
Undying  in  the  far  depths  of  thy  soul, 

And  in  this  voioeful  spring,  whose  presence  giveth 
To  all  my  hopes  a  happier  control. 

Afar,  afar,  upon  the  wings  of  morning, 

I  send  the  spirit  of  my  love  to  thee, 
Beyond  the  seas,  where'er  thou  art  sojourning, 

O'er  utmost  earth,  remote  as  it  may  be. 


PREJUDICES    AGAINST   INNOVATION. 


When  we  consider  the  opposition  wliicli  every 
diange  has  had  to  encounter  before  it  has  been 
thoroughly  adopted,  we  cannot  be  surprised  by 
tJie  spirit  which  has  been  evoked  by  such  inno- 
vations as  interfere  in  an  especial  manner  with 
dierished  associations.  The  changes  in  national 
oastume  forced  on  a  people  have  been  ever  pro- 
ductive of  the  most  bitter  feelings,  and  often  of 
the  most  fatal  consequences.  It  is  well  known 
that  an  alteration  in  the  uniform  of  the  sepoys 
was  the  cause  of  one  of  the  most  fearful  tra- 
gedies on  record.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
gome  military  men  at  Madras,  in  the  year  1806, 
oa'dered  the  helmet  worn  by  the  European  light 
infantry  to  be  substituted  for  the  national  tur- 
lian,  and  prohibited  the  distinguishing  marks  of 
tiieir  respective  castes  worn  by  the  native  sol- 
diers on  their  foreheads.  These  innovations  were 
deeply  resented,  and  an  awful  vengeance  fol- 
lowed the  new  regulations.  The  particulars  of 
the  dreadful  massacre  are  recorded  in  the  public 
journals  of  the  day.  Of  the  European  compa- 
nies, upwards  of  164  were  cut  off,  with  their 
officers — many  British  officers  of  the  native 
troops,  the  sick  in  the  hospital,  and  every  per- 
son found  in  the  officers'  houses,  were  \>\it  to 
death — and  800  of  the  sepoys  were  killed.  The 
obnoxious  regulation  was  withdrawn,  but  for  a 
long  time  the  spirit  of  disaffection  continued 
to  spread  in  all  directions.  The  prohibition 
against  the  Highland  costume  is  known  to  have 
produced  deep  and  bitter  feelings,  for  it  was 
most  fondly  associated  with  all  that  was  most 
dear — martial  prowess,  and  the  ties  of  clanship 
— end  80  picturesque,  that  it  seemed  to  belong  to 
the  very  scenery  and  poetry  of  the  country. 
But  a  few  years  since,  the  public  journals  de- 
tailed the  grief  into  which  the  .Jews  in  one  of 
flie  northern  countries  of  Europe  were  plunged 
by  the  law  which  obliged  them  to  change  their 
accustomed  garb ;  their  weeping  and  wailing 
was  described  as  most  pitiable.  One  of  the  most 
l)athetic  airs  ever  composed,  is  said  to  have  been 
the  lament  for  the  culan,  or  long  lock  worn  by 
the  Irish,  and  which  they  were  compelled  by 
Law  to  cut  off. 

Some  changes  have,  however,  been  so  judi- 
d'torus,  that  we  should  be  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
conceive  how  they  could  ever  have  been  re- 
sisted, were  we  not  aware  how  everything  is 


endeared  by  custom ;  and  thus  we  find  an  expla- 
nation for  the  obstinate  pertinacity  with  which 
old  inconveniences  were  clung  to.  Every  in- 
vention to  lighten  labor  or  save  time  has  met 
with  opposition  from  some  quarter,  in  som<e 
cases  entirely  from  interested  motives,  which 
have,  not  unfrequently,  outweighed  incalculable 
advantages.  The  expedient  devised  by  a  bene- 
volent person,  to  prevent  the  deleterious  eifect 
of  their  employment  to  the  needle-pointers,  was 
of  no  use ;  health  and  years  of  life  being  will- 
ingly sacrificed  for  the  high  wages  proportioned 
to  the  risk  which  was  incurred.  Dreadful  riots 
followed  the  introduction  of  the  power-loom. 
Indeed,  every  improvement  in  machinery  has 
met  with  opposition  in  some  direction. 

There  is  no  observation  more  just  than  that 
made  by  Sidney  Smith,  Avhen  he  says,  "Thene 
is  not  one  single  source  of  human  happiness 
against  which  there  have  not  been  uttered  tbe 
most  lugubrious  predictions — turnpike  roads,  na- 
vigable canals,  inoculation,  &q."  There  is,  in- 
deed, scarcely  even  an  article  in  common  use, 
that  has  not  been  made  the  object  of  so  much 
invective  or  ridicule,  that  we  wonder  how  they 
ever  came  to  be  considered  necessary  to  comfort. 
Coaches,  when  first  seen  in  England,  were  looked 
on  as  evidences  of  sloth  and  efi'eminacy  deroga- 
tory to  the  English  character.  Umbrellas,  when 
first  brought  over  from  Italy,  were  not  less  the 
objects  of  dislike  and  ridicule.  A  person  seen 
to  carry  one  through  the  street  was  sure  to  be 
hooted  and  laughed  at  by  the  mob,  as  a  mere 
dandy  of  his  day.  The  prejudice  against  forks, 
when  newly  invented,  was  so  great  that  they 
were  supposed  by  many  to  be  a  device  of  Satan 
to  ofi"er  an  affi'ont  to  Providence,  who  had  fur- 
nished human  beings  with  fingers  for  the  con- 
veyance of  food  to  the  mouth.  It  has  been  no 
unusual  thing  thus  to  ascribe  some  of  the  most 
useful  discoveries  and  inventions  to  diabolical 
intervention.  Antimony  and  bark,  now  held  as 
such  inestimable  drugs  in  medical  practice,  were 
supposed  to  have  been  brought  into  notic» 
through  the  same  evil  agency.  Bark  had  been 
brought  into  Europe  by  the  Jesuits,  who  distri- 
buted quantities  of  it  among  the  poor  who  were 
laboring  imder  intermittent  fevers  and  agues. 
The  cures  which  it  wrought,  and  the  quickness 
with  which  they  were  effected,  were  made  the 


PREJUDICES  AGAII^ST   INNOVATION. 


175 


great  objection  to  its  use.  "The  cures,"  said 
they,  -with  a  significant  shake  of  the  head,  "  are 
too  rapid."  A  preacher,  from  liis  pulpit,  de- 
nounced it,  as  having  been  prompted  by  the 
devil. 

Inoculation  for  the  small-pox  was  first  tried  in 
England  on  seven  condemned  criminals,  who,  on 
recovery,  were  pardoned.     It  might  have  been 
supposed  that  such  a  successful  experiment  of  its 
efficacy  would  have  established  its  value ;  but  it 
had  no  such  effect,  and  medical  men  continued 
to  inveigh  against  it  for  a  time.    Tamphlets  were 
WTitten,  condemnatory  of  the  impious  attempt 
to  interfere  with  the  decrees  of  Providence.     In 
the  sermon  of  an  admired  preacher,  it  was  in- 
sisted on  that  all  who  infused  the  variolo\is  fer- 
ment were  hellish  sorcerers,  aud  that  inoculation 
was  the  diabolical  invention  of  Satan.     These 
tirades  had   considerable   effect   on  the   public 
mind,  and  for  a  long  time  retarded  the  benefit 
of  the  great  discovery.     Vaccination,  in  its  turn, 
became   the  subject  of   bitter  invective.     The 
tales  propagated  against  it   filled  the  minds  of 
tiie  weak  and  ignorant  with  horror ;  pamphlets 
were  written,  and  sermons  were  preached,  to 
put  the  unsuspecting  on  tiieir  guard  against  this 
new  device  of  Satan.     "  God,"  said  they,  "gave 
us  the  small-pox ;  it  is  sinful  to  interrupt  it  by 
the  cow-pox."     Hand-bills  were  pasted  on  the 
walls  through  the   streets,   warning  the  people 
against  it.     In  some  of  them,  a  detailed  account 
was  given  of  one  who  had  submitted  to  vacci- 
nation, and  who  soon  had  horns  growing  out  of 
his  head.    It  is  thus  a  medicjxl  contemporary  and 
opponent  of  Jenner  wrote  on  the  subject — "  Fu- 
tm-e  ages  will  read  with  wonder  the  history  of 
the  cow-pox  credulity  of  our  nation ;  and  of  the 
headlong  precipitancy  with  which  the  children 
of  this  country  were  committed  to  a  medical  ex- 
periment at  the  risk  of  their  lives.    This  modern 
eaposing  of  children  sinks  our  boasted  human 
tenderness  beneath  the   guardian   spirit   of  in- 
stinct.    That  a  people  should  be  found  to  con- 
taminate  their   offspring  with   a  poison   taken 
from  the  brute  creation,   of  the  origin,  nature, 
mid  effects  of  which  they  had  not  the  smallest 
knowledge,    will   stand   among    the    incredible 
tales  of  some  future  Pliny." 

We  all  know  the  cruel  persecutions  which 
Galileo  underwent  for  his  astronomical  discov- 
eries ;  thrice  imprisoned,  ordered  to  recant  his 
heretical  theory  of  the  earth,  and  his  work  on 
the  Ptolemaic  and  Copernican  systems  publicly 
burnt;  Virgilius,  bishop  of  Saltzburg,  condemned 
tp  expiate  in  the  flames  the  heresy  of  which  he 
had  been  guilty  in  his  assertion  that  there  were 


antipodes  ;  Cornelius  Agrippa,  accused  of  being 
a  magician,  and  compelled  to  flee  his  country, 
for  having  exhibited  some  of  the  philosophical 
experiments  which  we  are  accustomed  to  see 
every  day — deprived  of  his  resources,  and  end- 
ing his  days  in  an  hospital ;  Galen,  driven  from 
Rome  by  the  persecution  of  the  physicians,  who 
ascribed  his  success  to  magic ;  Harvey,  seeing  his 
great  discovery  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood 
made  the  subject  of  a  bitter  controversy,  and  so 
protracted,  that  he  scarcely  lived  to  see  his 
theory  established. 

But  it  would  be  needless,  and  lead  us  into  too 
great  length,  were  we  to  enumerate  those  whose 
labors    met   with    no  better    reward  than   the 
calumnies  of  superstition  and  the  persecution  of 
bigotry.  Even  in  the  better  times  wliich  we  have 
seen,  we  know  that  geologists  had  to  hear,  and 
strange  to  say,  still  have  to  hear,  that  the  ten- 
dencies of  their  pursuit  lead  to  the  most  deplor- 
able results.     "  "When,"  said  Robert  Fulton,  "  I 
was  building  my  first  steam-boat  at  New  York, 
the   project  was  viewed  by   the   public  either 
with  indifierence  or  with  contempt,  as  a  vision- 
ary scheme.     My  friends,  indeed,  were  civil,  but 
they  were  shy.     They  listened  with  patience  to 
my  explanations,  but  with  a  settled  look  of  in- 
credulity on  their  countenances.     As  I  had  occa- 
sion to  pass  daily  to  and  from  the  building-yard, 
while  my  boat  was  in  progress,  I  have  often  loi- 
tered unknown  near  the  idle  group  of  strangei-s 
gathering  in  little  circles,  and  heard  various  inqui- 
ries as  to  the  object  of  this  new  vehicle.     The 
language  was  uniformly  that  of  scorn,  or  sneer, 
or  ridicule.     The  loud  laugh  often  rose   at  my 
expense — the   dry  jest,  the  wiser  calculation  of 
losses  and  expenditure,  the  dull  but  endless  re- 
petition    of  the   'Fulton   folly.'     Never   did   a 
single  encouraging  remark,  a  briglit  hope,  or  a 
warm  wish,  cross  my  path.     Silence  itself  was 
but  politeness  veiling  its  doubts    or   hiding  its 
reproaches.     At  length  the  day  arrived  when  the 
experiment  was  to  be  put  into  operation.     To 
me  it  was  a  most  trying  and  interesting  occasion. 
I  invited  many  friends  to  go  on  board  to  witness 
the  first  successful  trip.     Many  of  them  did  me 
the  favor  to  attend,  as  a  matter  of  personal  re- 
spect ;  but  it  was  manifest  that  they  did  it  with 
reluctance,  fearing  to  be  the  partners  of  my  mor- 
tification and  not   of  my  triumph.     I  was  well 
aware  tliat  in  my  case  there  were  many  reasons 
to  doubt  of  my  own  succes.    The  machinery  was 
new  and  ill-made ;  many  parts  of  it  were  con- 
structed  by   mechanics   unaccustomed    to   such 
work  ;  and  unexpected  difficulties  might  reason- 
ably be  presumed  to  present  themselves  from 


1Y6 


PREJUDICES  AGAINST   INNOVATION. 


other  causes.     Tlie  moment  arrived  in  which  the 
word  was  to  be  given   for  the  vessel  to  move. 
My  friends  were  in  groups  on  the  deck.     There 
was  anxiety  mixed  with  fear  among  tliem.   They 
were  silent,  and  sad,  and  weary.     I  read  in  their 
looks  nothing  but  disaster,  and  almost  repented 
of  my  efforts.     The   signal  was  given,  and  the 
boat  moved  on  a  short  distance,  and  then  stop- 
ped, and  became  immovable.     To  the  silence  of 
the  preceding  moment  now  succeeded  murmurs 
of  discontent,  and  agitations,  and  whispers,  and 
shrugs.      I   could   hear   distinctly  repeated,    '  I 
told  you  it  would  be  so — it  is  a  foolish  scheme — 
I  wish  we  were  well  out  of  it'     I  elevated  my- 
self upon  a  platform,  and  addressed  the  assem- 
bly.    I  stated   that  I  knew  not  what  was   the 
matter ;  but,  if  they  would   be   quiet,   and  in- 
dulge mc  for  half  an  hour,  I  would  either  go  on, 
or  abandon  the  voyage  for  that  time.    This  short 
respite  was  conceded  without  objection.     I  went 
below,  examined  the  machinery,  discovered  that 
the  cause  was  a  slight  mal-adjustment  of  some  of 
the  work.     In   a  short  period   it  was  obviated. 
The   boat  was  put  again  in  motion.     She  con- 
tinued to  move  on.     All  were  still  incredulous  ; 
none  seemed  willing  to  trust  the   evidence  of 
their  senses.    "We  left  the  fair  city  of  New  York, 
we  passed  through  the  romantic  and  ever  vary- 
ing scenery  of  the  Highlands,  we  descried  the  clus- 
tering houses  of  Albany,  we  reached  its  shore, 
and  then,  even  then,  when  all  seemed  achieved,  I 
was  tlie  victim  of  disappointment.     Imagination 
superseded   the   influence  of    fact ;  it  was  then 
doubted  if  it  could  be  done  again,  or  if  done,  it 
was  doubted  if  it  could  be  made  of  any  great 
value." 

The  application  of  steam  has  been  an  achieve- 
ment of  which  science  may  well  be  proud.  The 
predictions  of  what  it  was  yet  to  accomplish, 
were  not  met  with  the  spirit  of  pei-secution 
which  assailed  former  discoveries  and  inventions 
from  which  the  human  race  has  reaped  most 
precious  benefits.  But  most  certainly  they  were 
at  first  received  with  coldness,  and  often  with 
ridicule. 

The  celebrated  "  London  Quarterly  Review,"  in 
1825,  in  an  article,  on  "  Canals  and  Railways," 
said :  "  We  scout  at  the  idea  of  a  general  rail- 
road, as  altogether  impracticable,  or  as  one,  at 
least,  which  will  be  rendered  nugatory  in  lines 
where  the  traffic  is  so  small  that  the  receipts 
would  scarcely  pay  for  the  consumption  of  coals. 
As  to  tho<!e  persons,"  it  says,  "  who  speculate  on 
making  railroads  general  throughout  the  kingdom, 


and  superseding  all  the  canals,  all  the  wagons, 
mail  and  stage  coaches,  post  chaises,  and  in  short 
every  other  mode  of  conveyance  by  land  or  by 
water,  we  deem  them  and  their  visionary  schemes 
unworthy  of  notice." 

The  Review  goes  on  to  quote,  We  find  a  coun- 
tryman of  Mr.  Telford  writing  thus  : — "  "We  shall 
be  carried  at  the  rate  of  400  miles  aday,  with  all 
the  ease  we  now  enjoy  in  a  steam-boat,  but  with- 
out the  annoyance  of  sea-sickness,  or  the  danger 
of  being  burned  or  drowned."   "It  is,"  the  Review 
adds,  'certainly  some  consolation  to  those  who 
are  to  be  whirled  at  the  rate  of  eighteen  or  twenty 
miles  an  hour,  by  means  of  a  high-pressure  en- 
gine, to  be  told  that  they  are  in  no  danger  of  be- 
ing sea-sick  while  on  shore,  that  they  are  not  to 
be  scalded  to  death, or  drowned  by  the  bursting  of 
the  boiler,  and  tliat  they  need  not  mind  being  shot 
by  the  scattered  fragments,  or  dashed  in  pieces 
by  the  flying  off  or  breaking  of  a  wheel.     But, 
with  all  these  assurances,  we  should  as  soon  ex- 
pect the  people  of  Woolwich  to  suffer  themselves 
to  be  fired  off  upon  one  of  Congreve's  ricochet 
rockets,  as  trust  themselves  to  the  mercy  of  such 
a  machine,  going  at  such  a  rate.    Their  property 
they  may  perhaps  trust ;  but,  while  one  of  the 
finest  navigable  rivers  in  the  world  runs  parallel 
to  the  purposed  railroad,  we  consider  the  other 
20  per  cent,  which  the  subscribers  are  to  receive 
for  the  conveyance  of  heavy  goods  almost  as  pro- 
blematical as  that  to  be  derived  from  the  passen- 
gers.   We  will  back  old  Father  Thames  against 
the  Woolwich  Railway  for  any  sum." 

This  article,  when  written,  responded  to  the 
sentiments  of  the  most  influential  part  of  the 
community  ;  and  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  ut- 
terly unprepared  the  public  were  for  the  fulfill- 
ment of  predictions  which  they  ascribed  to  a  wild 
enthusiasm,  and  which  they  considered  it  a  duty 
to  keep  in  some  kiud  of  check.  But  science  and 
genius  have  gone  beyond  the  expectations  of  the 
most  sanguine  ;  and  all  seem  ready  to  grant,  that 
what  they  may  yet  lead  to  is  beyond  human  cal- 
culation. Discoveries  are  no  longer  looked  on  with 
mistrust  and  timid  apprehension  ;  but  what  next  / 
is  the  feeling,  if  not  the  question,  of  all.  Steam; 
and  electricity,  those  powerful  agents,  are  already 
affecting  the  destinies  of  man  in  all  directions, 
and  rendering  our  earthly  abode  every  day  more 
like  that  of  purely  spiritual  beings,  who  pass 
through  space  with  unobstructed  celerity,  and 
I  exchange  words  and  thoughts  from  the  most  re- 
mote distances. 


DIGNITY. 


FROM  THE  WASTE-DRAWER   OF   A   CLERGYMAN 


Could  any  superior  intelligences  take  an  inter- 
est in  observing  the  current  of  our  social  life,  as 
naturalists  contemplate  the  habits  of  inferior 
races,  what  a  fund  of  amusement  would  they 
find  in  the  working  of  human  notions  of  dig- 
nity !  No  class  of  beliefs  is  entertained  with  so 
much  of  variety  and  2'>'iradox.  One  nation's  le- 
gends on  the  subject  are  in  complete  opposition 
to  those  of  another,  and  the  faith  of  almost  every 
age  is  contradicted  by  that  of  its  successor.  In 
the  caliphate  of  Bagdad,  the  public  executioner 
ranked  next  to  the  prime  minister,  and  his  offi- 
cial title  was  Mesour,  or  the  happy ;  wliile  in 
Europe  everything  connected  with  the  same  of- 
fice was  deemed  so  disgraceful  that  the  magis- 
trates of  a  German  town  were  once  obliged  to 
proceed  in  a  body,  with  all  the  insignia  of  civic 
authority,  and  commence  the  repairs  of  the  gal- 
lows, in  hopes  that  their  example  might  induce 
some  workmen  to  complete  that  favorite  engine 
of  Gothic  law.  The  Danes  reproached  Alfred  of 
England  with  reading  Latin  like  a  priest ;  and 
now  A''irgil  and  Horace  may  be  said  to  lead  the 
van  of  an  English  gentleman's  education.  When 
Lord  Shaftesbury,  being  high  chancellor,  inform- 
ed his  royal  patron  in  full  levee  that,  "  for  a 
subject,  he  believed  himself  the  most  profligate 
man  in  his  majesty's  dominions ;"  and  a  country 
squire,  descanting  on  the  insolence  c>f  his  ser- 
vant, observed  that  "  the  fellow  forgot  his  station, 
and  swore  like  a  gentleman,"  the  suitabilities  (to 
Tenture  a  new  plural)  of  elevated  positions  must 
have  been  somewhat  different  from  the  present 
acceptation.  Well  might  the  old  poet  say,  "  The 
glories  of  our  birth  and  state  are  shadows,  not 
substantial  things."  Distorted  shadows  some  of 
them  have  been,  and  it  is  well  that  tlicy  at  least 
are  not  substantial.  Ideas  of  dignity,  if  not  re- 
stricted, are  certainly  common  to  mankind ;  and, 
whether  originating  in  vanity,  self-esteem,  or  a 
desire  for  the  respect  of  otlicrs,  much  of  the  ab- 
surd and  preposterous  has  in  all  times  liung 
about  their  demonstrations,  and  future  investi- 
gators will  smile  at  those  of  the  ninetcentli  cen- 
tury. 

Dignity  has  been  the  source  of  many  an  old 
and  troublesome  institution.     Hence  came  the 


caste  system  of  India,  interwoven  with  eastern 
mythology,  and  established  in  earlier  times,  un- 
der various  modifications,  in  all  the  nations  of 
the  earth.  From  the  same  root  was  derived  the 
science  and  mystery  of  heraldry,  so  important 
in  Europe's  untaught  and  pageant-loving  days. 
Thence,  too,  originated  the  whole  ceremonial  of 
etiquette,  known  to  the  world's  courts  and  cas- 
tles, from  the  nine  prostrations  of  the  Chinese 
before  the  statue  of  the  sun's  brother,  alias  the 
reigning  emperor,  to  the  famous  ordinance  of 
Queen  Charlotte,  against  saluting  any  but  titled 
ladies. 

Among  the  remnants  of  Celtic  literature  there 
is  a  satirical  poem,  called  "  The  AVoman  of  Three 
Cows,"  which  contains  a  sharp  expostulation  with 
an  ancient  dame  for  the  hauteur  she  exhibited, 
in  virtue  of  the  above-named  possession.  Others 
rest  on  some  imaginary  or  self-devised  distinc- 
tion. The  industrious  lady  mentioned  by  Addi- 
son, who  would  have  her  daughters  spin  hucka- 
back for  the  household,  but  only  on  little  wheels, 
as  large  ones,  however  expeditious,  were  used  by 
common  people,  and  therefore  inadmissible,  was 
an  example  of  the  kind  in  her  age.  There  are 
also  those  who  put  on  borrowed  glory  like  a  gar- 
ment, and  become  great  in  their  relations.  A 
titled  cousin  or  a  distinguished  uncle  has  been 
the  innocent  cause  of  injury  to  the  social  habits 
and  manners  of  many  a  family. 

A  German  poet,  who,  by  the  way,  lived  and 
died  a  bachelor,  gave  it,  as  the  result  of  his  ex- 
perience, that  the  near  relations,  and  particularly 
the  children,  of  celebrated  literateurs  were  in 
general  disagreeably  vain,  and  apt  to  cut  a  more 
eccentric  than  respectable  figure  in  life.  The 
single  poet  might  have  been  given  to  fault-find- 
ing with  other  people's  children  for  their  natural 
pride  in  a  distinguished  relative,  but  honors  en- 
tirely derived  have  seldom  been  eitlicr  gracefully 
worn  or  turned  to  good  account.  Nearly  allied 
to  this  form  is  family  pride.  Tliat  Gothic  pillar 
has  supported  the  dignity  of  unreckoned  num- 
bers in  the  coiu'se  of  centuries.  The  Dalmatian 
who  could  not  plough  his  only  field  because  his 
ancestors  had  been  chiefs  of  the  Haiduks,  confid- 
ed in  it  quite  as  much  as  Louis  XVI.  of  France, 


178 


DIGNITY. 


when,  just  before  the  first  revolution,  he  issued 
a  decree,  ordaining  that  none  should  expect  pre- 
sentation at  court  who  could  not  exhibit  a  clear 
pedigree  of  four  hundred  years.  The  assigned 
cause  of  this  ordinance  was,  that  sundry  family 
trees  of  doubtful  origin  had  sprung  up  in  the 
preceding  reigns:  and  there  is  an  anecdote  in 
point  of  Vauban,  the  celebrated  military  engi- 
neer. He  had  done  the  state  some  service  in 
frontier  fortifications — at  least,  Cardinal  Riche- 
lieu thought  so — and  it  was  proposed  to  reward 
him  by  means  of  an  order ;  but  Vauban  was  of 
plebeian  descent,  and  the  ribbon  could  be  be- 
stowed on  nothing  less  than  nobility.  The  car- 
dinal was  considerate  enough  to  send  him  an 
intimation  of  the  intended  honor  and  its  obstruc- 
tion, with  a  consolatory  hint  that  under  his 
patronage  any  herald  could  make  out  a  genealogy. 
"  Tell  the  cardinal  that  I  thank  him,"  responded 
the  truly  noble  engineer  to  this  courtly  message  ; 
"  but  say  also  that  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  pay- 
ing for  pride  with  truth ;"  and  history  mentions 
that  Vauban  received  the  order. 

Family  pride,  though  not  unknown  at  any  his- 
torical period,  appears  to  have  been  peculiarly 
the  growth  of  the  feudal  times.  It  was  well  fitted 
for  a  state  of  society  in  which  the  few  were  lords 
and  the  many  their  vassals ;  but  little  did  those 
proud  barons,  who  gloried  in  ancestors  and  quar- 
terings,  think  what  burlesque  editions  of  their 
trust  in  family  honors  should  appear  in  more 
equalizing  ages.  The  sweep  who  commanded  his 
son,  on  pain  of  being  disinherited,  to  give  up  all 
thoughts  "of  a  neighboring  tailor's  daughter,  as 
a  connection  beneath  one  whose  grandfather  had 
swept  the  flues  of  Windsor  Castle,  must  have 
cauglit  the  mantle  of  their  spirit,  though  its  de- 
scent was  far.  One  of  the  most  ludicrous  circum- 
stances of  this  kind  that  probably  ever  occurred, 
took  place  between  two  emigrant  Highlauderi 
in  tliis  country.  They  were  of  the  same  patrony- 
mic, but  had  taken  different  sides  in  an  election- 
eering question,  and  one  of  them,  the  better  to 
influence  the  votes  of  his  emigrant  countrymen 
in  the  locality,  reminded  them  of  his  descent 
from  chieftains,  whether  real  or  imaginary  it  is 
needless  to  inquire,  by  assuming  the  well-known 
title  of  "the  Macnab ;"  upon  which  his  opponent, 
not  to  be  outdone  at  once  in  rank  and  voters, 
announced  himself  to  the  amused  public  as  "the 
other  Macnab,"  and  each  bore  their  respective 
titles,  it  is  said,  much  longer  than  they  were 
found  agreeable.  The  pride  of  family  may  have 
served  a  good  purpose  at  times,  when  it  operated 
after  the  fashion  of  the  Barmecide's  advice  to 
his  son — "  Consider  thine  ancestors  only  to  excel 
them ;"  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that,  with  those  by 


whom  it  has  been  most  cherished,  the  having  of 
ancestors,  in  the  ordinary  acceptation,  was  deem- 
ed sufficient  excellence.  To  no  idea  of  dignity 
have  greater  sacrifices  been  made.  There  is  a 
dark  picture,  true  to  history,  though  often  re- 
peated in  the  fictitious  literature  of  France.  It 
is  an  aristocratic  family,  reduced  to  absolute 
penury  by  the  extravagance  of  elder  barons,  and 
the  code  of  the  noblesse  which  forbade  any  of  their 
branches  to  engage  at  all  in  business,  occupying 
an  apartment  or  two  in  a  vast  but  decaying  cha- 
teau, whence,  from  one  generation  to  another, 
the  sons  and  daughters,  all  excepting  the  heir, 
were  transmitted  to  convent  and  monastery  as 
soon  as  they  reached  eighteen,  being  literally 
born  to  the  veil  and  cowl. 

Such  details  verify  the  remarks  of  a  modern 
pliilosopher,  that  pride  is  the  Juggernaut  of  the 
moral  world.  The  autobiography  of  Count  Cha 
teaubriand  pi-esents  us  with  a  companion-sketch 
taken  from  his  father's  household.  They  kept 
but  two  aged  sei-vants,  and  lived  in  a  few  rooms 
of  their  huge  castle,  including  the  great  saloon, 
one  end  of  which  served  them  for  a  drawing- 
room  and  the  other  for  a  dining-parlor.  They 
saw  no  company,  had  no  books  to  read,  and  sel- 
dom went  out  even  to  church,  for  want  of  equip- 
ments suited  to  their  rank.  The  head  of  the 
family  spent  his  time  in  musing  over  his  fallen 
fortunes,  and  supported  his  dignity  by  rarely 
speaking  to  his  wife  and  children,  who  were  ex- 
pected to  keep  silence  in  his  presence.  Tlie  only 
amusement  permitted  to  his  noble  birth  was  that 
of  the  sportsman,  and,  having  no  other  hunting 
ground,  he  shot  owls  as  they  flew  out  of  the  ivy 
of  his  towers  on  summer  evenings,  and  in  winter 
pored  over  a  moth-eaten  chest  of  family  papers 
in  an  old  turret  chamber  called  his  study. 

The  inconsistency,  which  runs  throughout  hu- 
man afiixirs,  whether  of  faith  or  practice,  is  prom- 
inent in  many  notions  of  dignity.  At  Venice, 
in  the  days  of  her  glory,  none  but  the  nobility 
were  allowed  to  game,  yet,  it  is  curious  that,  in 
that  city  as  well  as  in  other  old  commercial 
towns  of  Italy,  such  as  Florence  and  Genoa, 
mercantile  pursuits,  so  far  from  being  considered 
vulgar,  were  almost  confined  to  the  aristocracy 
during  the  middle  ages,  while  they  were  regard- 
ed as  utterly  plebeian  over  all  the  rest  of  Europe. 
An  ancestor  of  the  revolutionary  orator.  Count 
Mirabeau,  who  was  of  Italian  origin,  and  had 
established  himself  with  his  merchandise  at  Mar- 
seilles, once  had  a  dispute  with  the  bishop,  who, 
by  way  of  contempt,  called  him  a  merchant.  "A 
merchant  of  spice  I  am,"  rejoined  the  Italian, 
"  but  you  are  only  a  merchant  of  holy  water,  and 
that  closed  the  contest. 


THE    IDEAL. 


no 


Somewhat  akin  to  self-magnifying  notions  on 
the  ground  of  birth  and  descent,  is  that  over- 
whelming veneration  for  the  dignity  of  superior 
rank.  A  notable  devotee  of  the  order  was  the 
naval  captain  who,  when  referring  to  the  captain 
of  a  Spanish  privateer  in  the  sea-faring  days  of 
William  IV.,  observed  that  "  the  Spaniards  had 
the  honor  to  be  taken  by  the  vessel  on  board  of 
which  his  royal  highness  served."  A  chemist  once 
performing  an  experiment  in  the  presence  of 
Louis  XIV.,  was  still  more  reverential :  "  Sire," 
said  he,  with  a  profound  bow,  "graciously  deign 
to  permit  these  substances  to  coalesce  in  your 
august  presence." 

During  the  exile  of  Charles  II.,  his  mimic  court 
was  kept  in  a  constant  ferment  by  the  rivalry  of 
Lord  Herbert,  and  Clarendon,  the  well  known 
historian,  for  the  possession  of  the  great  seal, 
which  had  lain  for  years  at  the  bottom  of  an  old 
trunk,  and  was  long  superseded  by  one  of  the 
parliament's  fabrication  in  England.  Perhaps 
some  scent,  or  hope  of  the  chancery,  "  hung  round 
it  still ;"  but,  at  length,  when  all  Europe  had 
either  openly  or  tacitly  recognized  the  authority 
of  Crommell,  and  the  whole  court,  according  to 
Clarendon's  own  letters,  owed  at  least  three 
months'  board  and  lodging,  which  he  piously 
hoped  some  of  their  descendants  miglit  pay,  the 
historian  of  the  Rebellion  was  victorious,  for  the 
king  suspended  the  seal  by  a  black  ribbon  round 
his  neck,  and  Lord  Herbert  is  said  to  have  died 
of  grief  at  his  disappointment.  Clarendon  lived 
to  carry  that  seal  before  the  restored  king  on  his 
march  to  Whitehall,  with  the  chancellorship  and 
all  its  substantialities  in  full  possession — lived  to 
gain  much  outward  greatness,  do  some  shabby 
things,  and  fall  out  of  royal  favor,  carrying  with 
him  only  the  hatred  of  the  multitude  and  a  bro- 
ken reputation,  over  which  partisans  have  ever 
since  disputed.  The  story  of  Clarendon's  fall 
affords  an  example  of  the  doings  of  dignity  quite 


as  curious  ast  hose  contemplated  in  his  elevation, 
though  of  a  different  kind.  The  chancellor's  ene- 
mies at  court  could  never  make  the  king  forget 
his  long  and  faithful  services,  till  they  hit  upon 
the  expedient  of  saying  to  Charles  whenever  he 
appeared,  "  Old  Rowley,  there  comes  your 
schoolmaster."  The  monarch,  whose  habits  and 
character  sanctioned  such  a  form  of  address,  im- 
mediately took  alarm  that  his  dignity  should  be 
surpected  of  stooping  to  instruction,  and  Claren- 
don's dismissal  was  determined. 

How  deplorably  frequent  are  the  correspond- 
ing cases  of  private  life  !  Wise  and  loving  coun- 
sel has  been  despised,  the  bond  of  mutual  interest 
forgotten,  and  the  friendship  of  years  set  at  naught 
by  the  dignity  of  both  peer  and  peasant  in  fear 
of  presumed  dictatorship.  Are  there  any  wlio 
have  never  heard  worthless  associates  mention  a 
man's  best  friend,  or  it  may  be  his  help-mate,  in 
the  style  of  "Old  Rowley,  there  comes  your 
schoolmaster  ?"  The  pranks  wliich  dignity  is  apt 
to  play  with  peojile's  manners  are  but  too  gen- 
erally known.  Perhaps  a  seat  in  either  cluirch 
or  dining-room,  be>ide  a  lady  impressed  witli  the 
necessity  of  supporting  it,  would  furnish  the 
most  familiar  if  not  the  pleasantest  illustration. 
Some  philosophers  have  remarked  than  an  over- 
straining after  dignity  is  the  liability  of  tlio  mas- 
culine rather  than  tlie  feminine  character,  and  its 
absence  is  certainly  an  advantage  to  the  latter. 
In  all  stations,  the  desire  of  respect  is  not  only 
natural  but  praisewortliy,  nor  is  it  less  so  that 
men  should  avail  themselves  of  fortune's  aids  for 
the  purpose ;  but  the  respect  of  even  ordinary 
minds,  whatever  machinery  of  airs  or  circumstan- 
ces may  be  brought  to  hear  upon  tlvem,  can  only 
be  secured  by  conduct  which  is  really  respectable. 
Socrates  once  being  asked  what  were  the  most 
honorable  among  men  and  things,  answered, 
"Those  that  are  wi.sest  and  best;"  and  Ids  reply 
embodied  the  truest  notions  of  dignify. 


THE    IDEAL 


B  T       R  . 


STODDARD. 


A  soft  ideal,  long  beloved, 
But  long  beloved  in  vain, 

In  memory's  gallery  hangs  alone. 
The  picture  of  my  brain  ! 

It  is  not  young,  nor  beautiful ; 
But  worn  vrith  ain  and  care, 


Like  her  who  washed  the  feet  of  Christ, 
And  wiped  them  with  her  hair ! 

But  oh  I  the  sweetness  of  the  face — 

The  sadness  of  the  eye  | 
It  haunts  my  soul  by  day  and  night, 

And  will  uniil  I  die  .' 


THE    TRUE    SOURCE    OF    HAPPINESS. 


Happiness  is  that  bright  particular  star  whose 
genial  rays  are  ever  pleasing  to  the  human  eye 
and  exliilaniting  to  the  human  spirit  What  the 
law  of  attraction  is  to  the  physical  world,  happi 
ness  is  tcj  the  moral  world  ;  it  attracts  and  centres 
in  itself  the  feelings  and  emotions  of  the  heart,  and 
the  thoughts  and  aspirations  of  the  mind.  Every 
human  being  is  in  pursuit  of  bliss,  however  much 
lie  may  be  mistaken  in  his  conception  of  it,  and 
the  means  wliich  he  use?  to  obtain  its  possession. 
The  essence  of  it  is  divine  and  pure,  and  it  is  the 
result  of  a  due  appreciation  of,  and  due  conformi- 
ty to,  the  will  of  God,  as  it  is  revealed  in  crea- 
tion and  the  Bible.  By  this  we  mean  that  God 
is  the  author  of  all  happiness,  and  that  man  can 
only  secure  it  by  shaping  his  conduct  according 
to  those  lines  of  duty  that  are  written  in  light 
and  love  in  his  works  and  word.  When  we  speak 
of  happiness,  we  do  not  allude  to  that  illusory  and 
chameleon-like  thing  called  pleasure,  by  which 
60  many  of  our  fellow-creatures  are  deluded.  Not 
that  we  object  to  rational  and  lawful  pleasures — 
we  rather  commend  them  ;  but  we  consider  them 
as  subordinate  means  of  happiness.  They  are 
only  tributary  streams,  emptying  themselves  into 
that  deep  and  unfathomable  sea  of  happiness 
which  was  designed  to  fertilize  and  bless  the 
world  of  humanity.  The  elements  of  bliss  are 
around,  above,  and  within  us;  we  read  of  them  in 
the  past,  we  see  them  in  the  present,  and  we 
dream  of  them  in  the  future. 

It  is  truly  lamentable  that  so  fevi^,  compara- 
tively, should  understand  the  real  nature  and 
characteristics  of  happiness.  Some  seek  it  in  am- 
bition, power,  and  pomp;  others  in  the  trifles  and 
gewgaws  of  life  ;  and  a  third  class  wear  the  mana- 
cles of  passion,  appetite,  and  lust ;  and  yet  they 
think  that  they  are  bound  by  the  golden  chain  of 
happiness.  Their  mental  vision  is  obscured,  and 
their  moral  nature  perverted,  so  that  they  cannot 
perceive  and  value  so  heavenly  a  thing.  Tiiey 
mistake  the  instruments  of  happiness  for  the  thing 


itself,  and  too  often,  alas  !  misuse  them,  so  as  to 
convert  them  into  positive  curses.  We  do  not 
agree  with  Scotia's  plowman-bard, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn  : 

the  germs  of  happiness  are  implanted  in  our  na- 
ture, and  we  are  accountable  for  their  develop- 
ment and  perfection.  We  can  fully  sympathize 
with  Byron  when  he  says, 

Our  nature's  false — 'tis  not  in  the  harmony  of  things, 

because  he  felt  the  truth  and  power  of  what  he 
wrote.  His  heart  was  out  of  tune  with  all  sur- 
rounding objects,  and  consequently  there  was  dis- 
cord instead  of  harmony.  If  we  allowed  our- 
selves to  be  influenced  by  appearances,  we  should 
be  led  to  infer  that  misery  (or  the  opposite  of 
happiness)  was  a  necessity  of  man's  nature.  The 
empire  of  this  million-phased  monster  is  exten- 
sive, and  he  rules  with  a  rod  of  iron.  But  how- 
ever much  we  may  deplore  the  existence  of 
misery,  it  is  a  consolatory  and  well-ascertained 
fact,  that  it  is  not  a  necessary  evil,  but  that  it  is 
to  a  great  extent  self-inflicted,  and  therefore  may 
be  remedied  by  personal  and  social  reformation. 
Man  was  made  for  happiness.  It  is  an  inherit- 
ance given  to  him  by  his  Maker,  but  it  has  been 
lost  through  sin  and  folly.  But  there  is  a  possi- 
bility of  regaining  it  again;  and  that  which  is 
now  a  dream,  a  wish,  a  prayer,  may  become  a 
great  fact,  a  splendid  reality.  The  sources  of 
happiness  are  laid  deep  in  man's  moral  and  intel- 
lectual nature.  Men  must  be  taught  to  look  for 
them  there,  and  not  in  the  pleasures  of  sense. 
The  former  are  of  paramount  importance,  the 
latter  are  fleeting  and  transitory.  No  happiness 
is  so  holy  as  that  of  purifying  and  exalting  our 
moral  feelings,  and  developing  and  enlarging  our 
mental  faculties.  By  this  means  we  shall  fit  our- 
selves for  the  enjoyment  of  everything  that  can 
bless  and  elevate  humanity. 


dD  ling  to  3Hl 


SITNG  BY  MISS  CATHARINE  HAYES. 


MUSIC  RY  C.  A.  OSBORNE, 


-#-7^- 


)=fc 


i 


^ 


^^ 


(111!    sing,  oh!  sing  to  nie 

FriouJs        of  my  youth,  friends  past 


i»— 


a  -    gain, 
and     gone, 


With 


^^f^- 


I^ 


i^^-#r-T 


•  0\  0 


x_^ 


£ 


ft 


:^ 


plain  -  tive  voice        that  well -loved 

Scenes  of  bright        days,    .    .    .        long,  long 


V — ^ 


strain  ;    It         brings back  childhood's 

flowu,  Though  you can  ne'er    be 


f 


^1^ 


i 


^L !. 


3e^^ 


iL-ljl' 


? 


hours.  Its        sun  -  ny  fields  and    bowers,    WHien  the  heart  was  free    from    pain, 

mine.  While  mem'ry's  liglil  doth    shine.         Your        joys     are    all     my     own. 


OH!    SING    TO    ME. 


r^ 


^       ^T^ 


'i=^f=^ 


(^-^ 


Oh !         sing, 
Oh !         sing, 


sing  that  strain  a  -  gain And  all    my  ear    -    -  ly 

sing  that  strain  a  -  gain And  all    my  ear    -    -  ly 


©t 


-t^— 


1©- 


■«?- 


-*^- 


^&- 


-is^ 


cres. 


mm^ 


joys         re 
joys        re 


store, 
store. 


Oh! 
Oh! 


sing, 
sing, 


sing    to  me    that  strain,    that 
sing    to  me    that  strain,    that 


^n] 


H*.*  >;' 


r 


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4^-^ 


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strain, 
strain. 


P 


ral 


len 


[     M 


—I — i — m—a~a 


9-0-0- 


And  let  me       be  the  child  a  -  gain  ; 
And  let  lue       be  the  child  a  -  gain  ; 


Oh  !  sing,  Oh  !    sing     to  me    a- 
Oh !  sing.   Oh!    sing     to  me    a- 


gain  that  strain 

gain  that  strain 


\j^)f^^^S 


s 


m. 


m  m   m 


miT) 


$$  \ 


/     '/^ 


LEONARD    BACON,    B.    D. 


EARLY    PIETY 


BY      E  E  T 


D  R, 


BACON, 


The  pietj  which  takes  its  date  from  early 
youth ;  which  grows  with  tlie  gi'owth,  and 
strengthens  with  the  strength  of  the  mind  in  all 
its  faculties;  which  sheds  its  benignant  influence 
on  all  the  features  of  the  character ;  and  which 
has  full  opportunity  to  exert  its  purifying  and 
ennobling  tendency,  while  the  very  substance  of 
the  soul,  as  it  were,  is  yet  unformed  and  plastic, 
acquires  a  consistency,  a  symmetry,  a  strength  and 
"beauty  of  holiness,"  which  is  rarely  acquired  in 
any  other  way.  The  character  of  such  an  one  is 
worth  more  to  the  church,  worth  more  to  the 
honor  of  God,  and  to  the  interests  of  man,  than 
the  character  of  the  same  individual  could  be, 
had  he  spent  many  years  in  mere  worldliuess, 
and  then  at  last,  after  all  his  habits  of  thought 
and  action  had  acquired  the  stubbornness  of  age, 
first  experienced  the  power  of  religion. 

The  young  have  the  entire  period  of  their  ac- 
tivity before  them,  and  may  be  permitted  to 
spend  many  years  in  works  of  usefulness.  Let 
the  old  man  be  converted,  as  he  totters  along  on 
the  margin  of  another  world;  and  what  is  there 
which  he  can  do  for  God  or  for  men?  His  own 
soul  is  indeed  saved  from  passing  into  eternity 
unreconciled  to  God,  and  unforgiven;  but  what 
is  there  which  he  can  do,  what  works  meet  for 
repentance  can  he  perform,  as  the  shadows  fall 
dark  and  heavy  on  his  path,  and  the  gray  even- 
ing of  that  night  in  which  no  man  can  work,  is 
already  closing  around  him  ?  What  can  he  do  to 
advance  the  salvation  of  the  world  ?  What  can 
he  do  to  send  down  to  after  ages  a  strong  and 
holy  Christian  influence  ?  He  can  only  offer  to 
God  a  few  faded  and  decaying  fragments  of  exis- 
tence; he  can  only  breath.e  out,  with  the  tremu- 
lous asthmatic  utterance  of  age,  one  feeble  dying 
testimony,  and  he  is  gone  to  that  land  of  silence 
where  there  is  no  work,  nor  knowledge,  nor  de- 
vice. But  the  young  Christian,  M'hile  he  may  be 
trained,  as  we  have  already  noticed,  to  a  higher 
and  nobler  measure  of  piety,  may  also  be  allowed 
to  devote,  to  the  active  service  of  God,  all  those 
years  which  the  aged  convert  regrets  having 
spent  to  no  important  purpose.  If  his  life  is 
spared,  he  will  soon  be  sustaining  his  part  in  the 


vast  and  complicated  drama  of  human  action. 
All  his  influence  on  the  men  of  his  own  generation, 
all  his  influence  on  the  well- being  of  tiie  ages 
that  shall  follow  him,  is  something  yet  to  be  ; 
and  now  that  he  has  first  given  himself  to  God, 
we  may  hope  to  see  that  influence  consecrated  to 
the  noblest  and  holiest  ends.  We  may  hope 
that  in  all  the  relations  which  he  is  yet  to  sustain 
in  life,  domestic,  social,  and  public,  as  well  as  re- 
ligious, he  will  be  serving  God  and  advancing  the 
best  interests  of  man.  We  may  hope  that  through 
all  the  channels  of  human  influence,  he  will  be  con- 
tinually sending  forth  upon  the  world  a  salutary 
energy ;  and  that  ere  his  head  shall  blossom  for 
the  grave,  he  will  have  done  much  to  breathe 
into  the  character  of  ages  yet  unborn,  the  spirit  of 
Christian  intelligence  and  Christian  virtue.  That 
"  aged  one"  who  could  say  when  the  time  of  his 
departure  was  at  hand,  I  am  ready  to  be  offered,  I 
have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course, 
was  converted  while  he  was  yet "  a  young  man." 

The  most  important  peculiarity  in  the  consti- 
tution of  society  under  which  we  live,  that  indeed 
into  which  almost  every  other  peculiarity  may 
be  resolved,  is  the  perfect  freedom  of  opinion  and 
of  moral  influence  which  is  here  secured  to  all ; 
the  fact  that  here  there  is  nothing  to  check  or 
control  the  mutual  influence  of  the  individual 
members  of  the  community.  Every  man  has  an 
opportunity  to  exert  on  society  all  the  moral  in- 
fluence of  which  he  is  capable.  Here  are  no 
privileged  orders,  no  hereditary  distinctions,  no 
ecclesiastical  establishments,  no  ancient  and  sa- 
cred immunities,  no  unrepealable  constitutions, 
to  bound  or  curb  the  tides  of  popular  opinion. 
The  character  and  the  mutual  influence  of  indi- 
vidual citizens,  is  under  God,  the  only  thing  on 
wliich  the  destinies  of  the  nation  hang.  What- 
ever the  people  will  is  done  ;  and  they  will  just 
that  which  their  character,  and  their  influence  on 
each  other,  lead  thum  to  regard  as  desirable. 
Government  is  nothing;  law  is  nothing;  constitu- 
tions and  compacts  are  nothing  ;  public  character 
and  public  opinion,  in  other  words  the  character 
and  opinions  and  mutual  influence  of  individuals, 
is  everything.      And  while  the  influence  of  indi^ 


186 


E  ARLY  PIETY. 


viduals  is  so  momentous,  and  the  power  of  pub- 
lic opinion  so  unlimited,  every  man  i#  at  liberty 
to  push  his  influence  in  just  what  direction  he 
chooses,  and  to  the  greatest  extent  which  his 
faculties  will  allow.  If  a  man  chooses  to  propa- 
gate intemperance,  libertinism,  infidelity,  athe- 
ism, any  form  of  profligacy,  or  any  monstrous  or 
abominable  doctrine  whatever,  he  has  every  Ai- 
cility  for  doing  it.  If  a  man  is  careless  what 
opinions  prevail,  or  what  sort  of  influence  he 
exerts,  there  is  nothing  to  hinder  him  from  being 
borne  whithersoever  the  conflicting  winds  and 
currents  may  happen  to  carry  him.  If  a  man  is 
impelled  by  the  benevolence  of  Christianity,  and 
glows  with  desires  to  inculcate  on  others  the 
same  principles  which  are  so  rich  a  treasure  to 
himself,  no  power  can  restrain  him  from  doing 
it.  If  individuals  of  kindred  spirit,  whether  few 
or  many,  choose  to  associate  for  the  more  exten- 
sive propagation  of  what  they  regard  as  truth 
and  virtue,  they  have  no  need  to  petition  any 
body  for  the  privilege  of  doing  it;  they  cannot 
be  liindered  from  doing  it,  save  by  the  absolute 
subversion  of  the  first  principles  of  our  social 
constitution.  Christians  are  allowed  to  do  all 
the  good  they  can  ;  infidels,  so  long  as  they  ab- 
stain from  actual  violence,  are  allowed  to  do  all 
the  evil  they  can;  and  there  is  no  power  but 
God's  which  can  prevent  the  inert,  neutral,  and 
indifterent  portions  of  society  from  being  swayed 
by  just  that  party  which  proves  itself  the  most 
united,  earnest,  and  efficient  in  its  efforts. 

Nor  j.9  this  all.     It  needs  no  spirit  of  prophecy 
to  prechct,  that  the  greatest  results  are  soon  to 
be  decided  in  regard  to  the  destiny  of  this  nation. 
But  what  shall  be  the  character,  and  what  the 
condition,  of  the  millions  that  shall  people  our 
territories,  and  of  their  countless  posterity,  is  a 
question  not  yet  decided.     Whether  Christianity 
or  infidelity  is  to  form  their  characters,  and  to 
model  and  inspire  their  institutions,  is  a  question 
not  yet  decided.     Whether  they  are  to  be  one 
people,  free,  united,  intelligent  and  peaceful,  or 
are  to  be  divided  into  hostile  states,  under  strong 
and  military  governments,  watering  each  other's 
fields   with  blood,  and  giving  each  other's  har- 
vests and  dwellings  to  the  flames,  is  a  question 
yet    to   be   decided.     Whether    the    vales   and 
jnountain-tops    of    this    wide   empire  shall   be 
adorned  with  the  spires  of  Christian  churches ; 
Avhether  the  Sabbath  shall  smile  on  all  the  cities 
and  hamlets  of  the  land,  bringing  to  the  universal 
population  its  weekly  repose   and  its  holy  in- 
fluences ;  or  whether  the  temples  of  infidel  rea- 
son and  the  temples  of  a  degrading  superstition 
shall  triumph  over  tlie  temples  of  Immanuel ;  and 


the  orgies  of  atheism,  the  bowlings  of  fanaticism, 
and  the  pomp  of  superstitious  worship,  shall 
drown  the  voice  of  pure  and  spiritual  devotion, 
are  questions  yet  to  be  decided.  Soon,  even 
while  tlie  generation  which  is  now  young,  is  on 
the  stage  of  action — soon,  even  by  their  character 
and  their  conduct,  these  results,  now  so  uncertain, 
that  afi"ect  so  deeply  the  well  being  of  this  vast 
portion  of  the  human  race,  will  probably  be  de- 
termined and  developed. 

The  great  moral  conflict  which  is  now  going 
on  in  this  land,  is,  in  fact,  a  conflict  on  the  ques- 
tion whether  light  or  darkness,  truth  or  falsehood, 
vital  religion  or  sheer  impiety,  shall  get  the  con- 
trol over  tlie  rising  generation.  Neither  party 
in  this  conflict,  calculates  on  efi'ecting  any  exten- 
sive revolution  in  the  minds  of  those  who  have 
already  attained  to  the  age  of  maturity.  It  is 
on  the  young  that  the  hopes  and  fears  and  efforts 
of  both,  are  centering.  Every  youth  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  evangelical  devotion,  and  trained  for 
intelligent  and  decided  Christian  action,  will  pro- 
bably be  a  witness  for  the  truth,  a  strenuous  sup- 
porter of  virtue  and  godliness,  an  earnest  opposer 
of  all  evil,  a  self-denying  partaker  in  every 
benevolent  and  Christian  effort,  in  that  most  mo- 
mentous and  critical  age, on  tlie  confines  of  which 
we  are  already  standing.  So,  on  the  other  hand, 
every  youth  whose  sober  habits  are  perverted, 
and  whose  miud  is  poisoned,  by  the  adroit  and 
indefatigable  efllirts  of  infidel  demagogues,  cal- 
culating on  the  future  suff'rages  of  a  corrupted 
and  besotted  people,  will  propably  becomes  ere 
he  is  hi.mself  awareof  it,  a  frantic  infidel,  making 
his  forehead  like  brass,  and  braying  forth  his 
blasphemies  against  all  that  is  holy.  While  "  the 
combat  deepens,"  and  the  energies  of  the  parties 
are  more  desperately  put  in  requisition,  tlie  in- 
fluence of  each  individual  will  assume  an  impor- 
tance the  greater,  and  a  responsibility  the  more 
fearful,  in  proportion  as  it  is  the  more  closely 
connected  with  the  final  issue. 

With  what  importance  then  does  this  thought 
invest  the  piety  of  the  young.  On  the  character 
of  the  generation  which  is  to  fallow  us,  are  de- 
pending great  results,  not  only  in  respect  to  our 
own  country,  but  no  less  in  respect  to  the  well- 
being  of  the  human  race.  The  enterprises  which 
have  been  so  auspiciously  commenced  in  these 
days,  will  soon  devolve  on  the  Christians  of  an- 
other age.  Op  those  who  are  now  in  early  youth, 
or  in  childhood  and  infancy,  it  must  soon  devolve 
to  prosecute  these  enterprises  with  a  holier  zeal, 
and  with  an  energy  invigorated  by  the  nearer 
prospect  of  universal  victory;  or  to  abandon 
them   and  let  the  whole   creation  continue  to 


FAREWELL. 


187 


groan  and  travail  in  pain  together  as  until  now, 
waiting  to  be  delivered  from  tlie  bondage  of  cor- 
ruption into  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  children 
of  God.  How  important  then,  is  the  conversion, 
the  early  conversion  of  those  who  are  soon  to  act 
under  responsibilities  so  momentous.  Every  such 
conversion,  we  may  hope,  will,  in  a  few  years,  tell 
on  the  conversion  of  the  world.  Every  youth 
who  now  becomes  a  humble,  decided,  self  denying 
Christian,  will  soon  possess,  if  his  life  is  prolonged, 
the  energies  of  manhootl,  guided  by  mature  de- 
votion, and  impelled  by  an  equable  and  fervent 
zeal ;  and  will  be  called  to  exert  those  energies, 
we  may  hope,  at  that  critical  point  in  the  history 
of  the  world's  salvation,  when  every  mite  of  in- 
fluence contributed  to  the  cause  of  holiness,  will 
derive  an  augmented  value,  from  the  instant 
pressure  of  thick-coming  events. 

Nor  can  we  fail  to  notice  tlie  dark  and  pecu- 
liar atrocity  of  that   wickedness,  which  aims  at 
the  corruption   of  the   young.     All   wickedness 
tends  to  propagate  itself,  by  its  native  contagion. 
But  there  are  men  with  whom  the  propagation 
of  evil  is  not  only  a  matter  of  course,  but  still 
more  a  matter  of  choice  and  calculation ;  men 
who  take  a  fiendish  pleasure  in  extending  the 
principles  and  the  practice   of  sin.     There  are 
men  with  whom  it  is  a  business  to  instill  into  the 
minds  of  others,  especially  of  the   young,  such 
prejudices  and  opinions,  and  to  excite  there  such 
passions,  as  will  ensure  their  bitter  and  persever- 
ing enmity  against  religion  and  virtue.     There 
are  everywhere,   especially  in  our  cities,  men, 
the  very  recruiting  sergeants  of  the  great  enemy 
of  God  and  man,  who  love  to  gain  a  baleful  in- 
fluence over  the  inexperienced   and  unsophisti- 
cated young  ;  to  introduce  them  gradually,  as  the 
decay  of  conscience  in  the  bosoms  of  the  poor 
victims  will  allow,  into  the  haunts  and  mysteries 
and  orgies  of  iniquity ;  to  teach  them   the  lan- 
guage of  devils ;  to  put  to  their  lips,  and  lure 
them  to  taste,  the  fatal  poison,  hot  with  the  fires, 
and  mixed  with  the  sorceries  of  the  world  of  per- 
dition ;  to  bind  them  hand  and  foot,  the  slaves  of 
Satan ;  to  shut  them  up  by  the  power  of  preju- 
dice and  passion,  and  by  the  mutual  domination 
of  copartnership  in  sin,  so  that  no  better  influence, 


no  voice  of  love,  can  eSectually  reach  them  ;  and 
thus  to  secure  their  moral  ruin  in  tliis  world,  and, 
if  there  is  any  truth  in  the  Bible,  their  perdition 
in  the  world  to  come.     Could  we  hope  to  reach 
the  ear,  and  to  ring  one  startling  note  on  the  dull 
conscience  of  such  a  man,  we  would  tell  him.  It 
is  not  merely  fur  the  deep  grief  of  those  fathers 
whose  hopes  have  "  expired  under  the  contagion" 
of  your  example  and  your  principles;  it  is  not 
for  the  anguish  of  many  a  broken  hearted  mother, 
or  the  tears  and  shame  of  many  a  desolate  sister, 
it  is  not  for  these  alone  that  we  regard  you  with 
abhorrence.     Nor  is  it  only  fur  the  fact  that  you 
are  sealing  these  individual  souls  f  jr  a  miserable 
eternity;  awful  as  is  the  thought  of  what  you 
are  doing  in  this  respect,  it  is  not  for  this  only 
that  we  shudder  to  look  upon  you.     It  is  that 
you  are  corrupting  another  generation,  and  train- 
ing these  victims  for  a  wickedness  as  atrocious  as 
your  own  ;  are,  sending  them  down  to  be  in  their 
turn  and  in  their  age  the  assassins  of  virtue  and 
the  murderers  of  souls,  it  is  for  this  that  you  de- 
serve to  be  loathed  and  abhorred  by  all  who  love 
the  happiness  of  man.     You  cast  deadly  poison 
into  a  river,  to  flow  down  with  its  current,  that 
all  who  dwell  on  its  banks  and  drink  of  its  waters 
may  die.     Your  guilt  has  an  atrocity  unparal- 
leled.    Go,  scatter  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  light 
up  the  flames  that  shall  consume  our  cities,  per- 
petrate what  stupendous  wickedness  you  will, 
but   leave  us   the   virtues  of  our  youth  uncor- 
rupted.     All  other  calamities  we  can  survive  ; 
all  other  calamities  time  will  alleviate;  all  other 
calamities  a  benignant  Providence  may  ultimate- 
ly convert  into  blessings  to  our  posterity ;  but, 
for  once,  corrupt  effectually  and  universally,  as 
you  are  doing  within  your  limited  sphere,  the 
principles  and  morals  of  our  youth ;  and  for  that 
poison  there  is  no  antidote,  in  that  moral  desola- 
tion tliere  is  no  hope,  there  can  remain  for  other 
generations  only  a  fearful  looking  for  of  the  fiery 
indignation,  which  never  fails  to  come  on  a  peo- 
ple corrupted  and  rotten.     Judge  then  what  is 
your  crime  in  the  estimation  of  a  holy  God.    You 
are   laboring   to   destroy  your   country,  and   to 
spread  a  pall  over  the  hopes  of  the  world. 


FAREWELL. 


This  shall  be  my  prayer  for  thee, 
That  the  Hand  we  may  not  see, 
Still  may  guide  and  comfort  thee. 

Otherraore  I  may  not  speak  ; 

I  am  mortal,  I  am  weak, 

And  my  bursting  heart  might  break. 


Be  thou  happy.     May  thy  feet 
Trip  through  life,  and  find  it  sweet, 
And  in  heaven  we  yet  may  meet. 

Life,  with  all  its  ebb  and  swell. 
Death,  with  hollow-sounding  knell, 
Centre  here,  in  "  Fare-thee-well." 


OLD    ENGLISH    SACRED    POETRY. 


From  the  death  of  Chaucer  to  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.  a  blank  ensues  in  English  literature. 
The  Reformation  which  began  under  Henry, 
■while  it  gave  a  vast  impulse  to  the  human  mind 
in  every  department  of  thought,  most  especially 
affected  the  species  of  literature  we  are  consider- 
ing. The  book  of  books  was  then  unsealed ;  and 
we  at  the  present  day,  when  Bibles  are  in  every 
house,  can  hardly  conceive  with  what  eager  eyes 
its  pages  were  pored  over,  and  with  what  pant- 
ing hearts  its  truth  and  promises  were  meditated. 
The  stream,  that  had  been  for  ages  dammed  up, 
was  set  free.  The  imagination,  that  had  been 
priest-bound,  leaped  for  joy  to  find  itself  at  liber- 
ty to "  wander  through  eternity,"  and  form  a 
paradise  for  itself,  without  consulting  the  formu- 
las of  the  Church.  Then  Poetry,  that  had  left  the 
eaithapreyto  ignorance,  superstition,  and  ty- 
ranny, descended  again  from  the  heaven  to  which 
she  had  flown,  and  resumed  her  sway  over  the 
hearts  of  men.  The  imaginations  and  affections, 
that  had  been  shut  out  by  .spiritual  despotism 
from  the  garden  of  religion,  and  had  been  driven 
to  the  haunts  of  vulgarity  and  earth-born  vice, 
returned  to  drink  at  the  holy  wells  that  had  so 
so  long  been  closed  ;  the  faith  of  the  Christian  and 
the  aspirations  of  genius,  which  had  been  most 
unnaturally  dissevered,  were  again  united ;  the 
devotion  of  the  worshipper  and  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  bard  flowed  once  more  in  the  same  channel; 
poet  and  prophet  became  one ;  the  first  fruits  of 
genius  were  laid  upon  the  altar ;  and  God  was 
honored,  as  he  should  have  ever  been,  in  the  gifts 
he  had  bestowed. 

And  it  might  with  reason  have  been  expected, 
that  the  Scriptures,  upon  being  opened  to  the 
public  eye,  should  awaken  and  bring  to  life  what- 
ever of  poetry  lay  concealed  in  the  community. 
They  are  not  only  depositories  of  truths  valuable 
to  every  individual,  because  connected  intimately 
with  every  individual's  present  and  future  welfare, 
but  they  abound  in  brilliant  pictures  for  the  ima- 
gination; their  solid  and  substantial  contents  are 
inlaid  with  the  diamond  ornaments  of  Eastern 
poetry,  which  throw  a  splendid  lustre  over  their 
pages,  making  them  as  delectable  to  the  taste,  as 
they  are  invigorating  to  the  moral  and  spiritual 
nature  of  man.     It  is  true,  the  first  attempts   at 
sacred  verse  in  England  were  rude,  of  which  the 
version  of  the  Psalms  in  Edward  the  Sixth's  time, 


by  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  is  an  example.  But 
a  new  era  was  about  to  commence.  The  sky  of 
English  literature  was  red  with  the  rising  glory  of 
Spenser,  and  his  Faery  Queen  walked  forth  with 
blended  majesty  and  sweetneess  to  captivate  all 
hearts.  The  poet  designed  in  this  work,  it  seems, 
"to  represent  all  the  moral  virtues,  assigning  to 
every  virtue  a  knight,  to'be  the  patron  and  defend- 
er of  the  same ;  in  whose  actions  the  feats  of 
arms  and  chivalry,  the  operations  of  that  virtue 
whereof  he  is  the  protector,  are  to  be  expressed ; 
and  the  vices  and  unruly  appetites  that  oppose 
themselves  against  the  same,  are  to  be  beaten 
down  and  overcome." 

Among  the  early  religous  poets  is  Robert 
Southwell.  He  belonged  to  the  society  of  Jesuits, 
and  in  1592  was  imprisoned  on  a  charge  of  sedi- 
tion. After  an  imprisonment  of  three  years,  he 
was  condemned  and  executed  at  Tyburn,  We 
copy  the  following  verses  from  his  lines  "Upon 
the  Picture  of  Death." 

"  The  gown  which  I  do  use  to  wear, 
The  knife  wherewith  I  cut  my  meat, 

And  eke  that  old  and  ancient  chair 
Which  is  my  only  usual  seat : 

All  these  do  tell  me  I  must  die. 
And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 

"  My  ancestors  are  turned  to  clay, 
And  many  of  my  mates  are  gon  e  ; 
My  youngers  daily  drop  away, 
And  can  I  think  to  'scape  alone  '! 

Ko,  no,  I  know  that  I  must  die, 
And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I." 

Francis  Davison  is  another  of  the  early  poets. 
He  was  the  son  of  Mr.  Davison,  Secretary  to 
Elizabeth.  The  genius  with  which  he  was  gifted 
formed  a  beautiful  compensation  for  the  reverses 
of  fortune  that  visited  him.  Like  David,  whom 
he  copied,  his  harp  was  his  companion  in  the 
wilderness  of  his  sorrows,  and  it  seems  to  have 
been  ever  vocal  with  the  sweet  strains  of  piety 
and  love.  The  following  verse  from  the  loOth 
Psalm  has  music  for  the   ear  and  the  heart  too. 

"  My  soul,  base  earth  despising. 
More  longs  with  God  to  he, 
Than  rosy  morning's  rising 
Tired  watchmen  watch  to  see." 

Giles  Fletcher  was  author  of  a  sacred  poem  called 
"  Christ's  Victory,"  first  published  in  the  year 
IGIO.    We  agree  with  Mr.  Willmott,  that  in  the 


OLD  ENGLISH  SACRED   POETRY. 


189 


following  stanza  "  every  word  is  full  of  beautiful 
meaning."  A  writer  who  could  pen  such  lines 
ought  surely  to  be  rescued  from  dust  and  worms. 

"  No  sorrow  now  hangs  clouding  on  their  brow, 
No  bloodless  malady  empales  their  face, 
No  age  drops  on  their  hairs  his  silver  snow, 
No  nakedness  their  bodies  dotherabase, 
No  poverty  themselves  and  theirs  disgrace  ; 
No  fear  of  death  the  joy  of  life  devours, 
No  unchaste  sleep  their  precious  time  deflowers, 
No  loss,  no  grief,  no  change,  wait  on  their  winged  hours.'" 

The  life  of  Wltlier  was  a  long  one,  and  was 
crowded  with  interesting  incidents.  He  lived 
during  a  period  of  great  excitement  and  feverish 
activity,  and  his  ardent  temper  forced  him  into  the 
thickest  press  of  the  times.  One  of  his  earliest 
productions  was  a  satirical  poem  entitled  "  Abuses 
Stript  and  Whipt,"  written  by  liim  in  a  season  of 
disappointment,  and,  as  is  frequently  the  case 
with  satire,  more  productive  of  liarm  to  the  writer 
than  of  good  to  the  community.  His  imprudence 
in  this  work  caused  him  to  be  thrown  into  prison. 
Here  he  suffered  much  ;  but  his  vigorous  mind, 
conscious  of  honest  intentions,  rose  above  his  situa- 
tion, and  he  composed  in  the  ilarshalsea  prison 
many  poems,  among  others,  "  Tlie  Shepherd's 
Hunting,"  a  pastoral  of  great  beauty.  The  fol- 
lowing extract  from  "A  Prisoner's  Lay,"  will 
show  that  Wither  could  derive  from  his  gloomy 
dungeon  the  most  sublime  reflections. 

"  Or  when  through  me  though  seest  a  man 
Condemned  unto  a  mortal  death, 
How  sad  he  looks,  how  pale,  how  wan, 
Drawing,  with  fear,  his  panting  breath  : 
Think  if  in  that  such  grief  thou  see, 
How  sad  will  '  Go,  ye  cursed'  be  I 

"  Again,  when  he  that  feared  to  die 
(Past  hope)  doth  see  his  pardon  brought, 
Read  but  the  joy  that's  in  his  eye, 
And  then  convey  it  to  thy  thought  : 
Then  think  between  thy  heart  and  thee 
How  glad  will '  Come,  ye  blessed'  be  !  " 

We  wish  we  had  room  also  for  the  exquisite 
address  to  Poetry  from  "  The  Shepherd's  Hunting." 

After  Wither's  liberation,  appeared  his  poem 
called  "The  Motto."  "Not  the  least  singular 
part  of '  The  Motto,' "  says  his  biographer, "  is  the 
frontispiece.  The  author  is  represented  sitting  on 
a  rock,  with  gardens,  liouses,  woods,  and  meadows, 
spread  beneath  him,  to  whicli  he  puints  with  his 
finger,  holding  a  ribband,  on  which  is  written  Nee 
haheo, '  Nor  have  L'  At  his  feet  is  a  globe  of  the 
earth, with  the  words,  A'eccu?-o,  'NorcareL'  Tlie 
poet  himself  sits  with  eyes  uplifted  towards 
heaven,  from  which  a  ray  of  light  descends,  and 
from  his  lips  proceed.  Nee  careo,  '  Nor  want  I.'  " 

Among    Wither's  numerous  works  was  the 


"  Preparation  for  the  Psalter,"  "  a  specimen  of  a 
voluminous  commentary  upon  the  Psalms,  which 
the  author  never  completed."  We  give  two 
verses  from  his  paraphrase  of  the   148th  Psalm. 

"  Let  such  things  as  do  not  live 
In  still  music  praises  give  : 
Lowly  pipe,  ye  worms  that  creep, 
On  the  earth,  or  in  the  deep  ; 
Loud  aloft  your  voices  strain, 

Beasts  and  monsters  of  the  main.  , 

Birds,  your  warbling  treble  sing; 
Clouds,  your  peals  of  thunder  ring  ; 
Sun  and  moon,  exalted  higher, 
And  you,  stars,  augment  the  quire. 

"  Come  ye  sons  of  human  race, 
In  this  chorus  take  your  place. 
And,  amid  this  mortal  throng, 
Be  you  masters  of  the  song. 
Angels  and  cele.stial  powers. 
Be  the  noblest  tenor  yours. 
Let,  in  praise  of  God,  the  sound 
Rim  a  never-ending  round  ; 
That  our  holy  hymn  may  be 
Everlasting,  as  is  He."' 

Wither  was  present  while  the  city  of  London 
was  ravaged  by  the  plague  in  1625.  His  fortitude 
and  piety  are  evinced  when  he  gives  the  reason 
why  he  did  not,  like  multitudes  of  others,  desert 
the  dangerous  place.  He  says  that  he  did  "  in 
affection  thereunto  make  here  his  voluntary  resi- 
dence, when  hundreds  of  thousands  forsook  their 
habitations,  that,  if  God  spared  his  life  during 
that  mortality,  he  might  be  a  remembrancer  both 
to  this  city  and  the  whole  nation."  He  gives  a 
natural  and  impressive  account  of  his  experience 
during  this  sad  period,  in  his  poem  called 
'  Britain's  Remembrancer." 

In  1641  he  published  "The  Halleluiah,  or 
Britain's  Second  Remembrancer"  ;  and  witli  this 
poem,  says  his  biographer,  "  the  poetical  life  of 
Wither  may  be  considered  to  have  terminated.'' 
The  remainder  of  his  mortal  career,  which  ex- 
tended far  into  the  shades  of  old  age,  was  any 
thing  but  poetical. 

Francis  Quarles  was  born  in  1592.  The  best 
known  of  his  poetical  works  is  his  Emblems, 
which  is  supposed  to  have  appeared  in  1635. 
The  following  extract  illustrates  his  peculiarities. 

PSALM. 

"  Ah  !  whither  shall  I  fly !    "NVhat  path  un  trod 
Shall  I  seek  out,  to  'scape  the  flaming  rod 
Of  my  offended,  of  my  angry  God  ? 

"  Where  shall  I  sojourn  ?    "What  kind  sea  will  hide 
My  head  from  thunder  ?    "Where  shall  I  abide 
Until  his  flames  be  quenched,  or  laid  aside  ? 

"  "What  if  my  feet  should  take  their  hasty  flight, 
And  seek  protection  in  the  shades  of  night  ? 
Alas .'  no  shades  can  blind  the  God  of  light. 


190 


"WHITHER    GOEST   THOU?" 


"What  if  my  soul  should  take  the  wings  of  day, 
And,find  some  desert  ?     If  she  springs  away, 
The  wings  of  vengeance  clip  as  fast  as  they. 

"  What  if  some  solid  rock  should  entertain 
My  frighted  soul  ?     Can  solid  rocks  sustain 
The  stroke  of  Justice,  and  not  cleave  in  twain  ? 

"  Nor  sea,  nor  shade,  nor'shield,  nor  rock,  nor  cave. 
Nor  silent  deserts,  nor  the  sullen  grave, 
Where  flame-eyed  Fury  means  to  smite,  can  save. 

"  'Tis  vain  to  flee  ;  till  Gentle  Mercy  show 
Her  better  eye,  the  farther  off  we  go, 
The  svring  of  Justice  deals  the  mightier  blow. 

"  The  ingenuous^child,  corrected  doth  not  fly 
His  angry  mother's  hand,  but  clings  more  nigh. 
And  quenches,  with  his  tears,  her  flaming  eye. 

"  Great  God  !  there  is  no  safety  here  below  ; 
Thou  art  my  fortress  ;  Thou  that  seem'st  my  foe, 
'Tis  Thou  that  strik'st  the  stroke  must  guard  the  blow." 

And  the  man  who  wrote  this  is  satirized  by  Pope 
in  the  Dunciad  thus : 

"  Or  where  the  pictures  for  the  page  atone  ; 
And  Quarles  is  saved  by  beauties  not  his  own." 

Gentle,  pious  Herbert  comes  next  in  the  gallery 
of  old  worthies  and  sacred  poets.  At  one  time 
he  had  hopes  of  political  preferment,  but  these 
•were  blasted  by  the  death  of  many  of  his  noble 
friends,  particularly  of  James :  and  although 
much  disappointed,  he  brought  himself,  at  length 
to  a  surrender  of  the  "  painted  pleasures  of  a 
court  life,"  that  he  might  devote  himself  to  the 
work  of  a  Gospel  minister.  The  following  lines 
on  Grace  are  from  his  "  Temple  "  : 

"My  stock  lies  dead,  and  no  increase 
Doth  my  dull  husbandry  improve  ; 
0,  let  Thy  graces,  without  cease, 
Drop  from  above ! 


"  If  still  the  sun  should  hide  his  face, 
Thy  house  would  but  a  dungeon  prove, 
Thy  works  night's  captives ;  0,  let  grace 
Drop  from  above  ! 

"  The  dew  doth  every  morning  fall. 
And  shall  the  dew  outstrip  Thy  dove? 
The  dew,  for  which  grass  cannot  call, 
Drop  from  above  ! 

"  0  come,  for  Thou  dost  know  the  way, 
Or,  if  to  me  Thou  wilt  not  move. 
Remove  me  where  I  need  not  say. 
Drop  from  above  I  " 

We  abruptly  conclude  our  brief  article  with 
the  following  version  of  the  137th  Psalm,  by 
Richard  Crashaw  : 

"  On  the  proud  banks  of  great  Euphrates'  flood, 
There  we  sate  and  there  we  wept  ; 
Our  harps  that  now  no  music  understood. 
Nodding  on  the  willows,  slept, 
While  unhappy,  captived  we, 
Lovely  Sion,  thought  on  thee. 

"  They,  they  that  snatcht  us  from  our  country's  breast, 

Would  have  a  song  carved  to  their  ears, 
In  Hebrew  numbers,  then  (0  cruel  jest  I) 

When  harps  and  hearts  were  drowned  in  tears  : 
'  Come,'  they  cried,  'come  sing  and  play 
One  of  Sion's  songs  tc-day.' 

"  Sing  !  Play  !  (ah  !  shall  we  sing  or  play,)  To  whom 

If  not,  Jerusalem,  to  thee  ? 
Ah  thee,  Jerusalem  !  ah,  sooner  may        ^j 
This  hand  forget  the  mastery 
Of  music's  dainty  touch,  than  I 
The  music  of  thy  memory. 

"Which,  when  I  lose,  0  may  at  once  my  tongue 
Lose  this  same  busy  speaking  art, 
Unperched,  her  vocal  arteries  unstrung, 
No  more  acquainted  with  my  heart, 
On  my  dry  palate's  roof  to  rest 
A  withered  leaf,  an  idle  guest." 


WHITHER  GOEST    THOU? 


I  STOOD  upon  a  lofty  hill, 

And  look'd  upon  the  deep  ; 
Below,  a  ship  so  calm  and  still. 

Lay  like  a  thing  of  sleep. 
Soon,  roused  by  gentle  winds,  afar, 

The  snow-white  clouds  of  sail 
Lessen'd,  as  some  bright  morning  star. 

Before  the  sun  grows  pale. 
I  watch'd  its  course  till  lost  to  view, 
Behind  the  swelling  hills  of  blue. 

1  saw,  in  thought,  a  human  soul. 

Dreaming  of  peace  below  ; 
1  heard  a  solemn  summons  roll, 

Like  a  mournful  voice  of  wo. 
Startled  it  woke  from  its  pleasant  dream, 


And  slowly  took  its  fight 
To  the  silent  land,  where  things  that  seem, 

Never  delude  the  sight. 
Upward  it  went  till  lost  to  view. 
Hid  by  the  overarching  blue. 

0  ship  !  0  soul !  together  bound 

On  journey  long  and  lone. 
Where  shall  thy  resting-place  be  found 

Within  the  great  unknown  ! 
For  who  shall  pierce  the  distant  sky 

With  weak  and  mortal  sight  ; 
Or  see  beyond  the  realms  that  lie 

Outstretoh'd  in  glory  bright  ? 
We  can  but  raise  our  hearts  for  thee, 
To  Him  who  rules  the  sky  and  sea. 


THE   STRANGER'S   GR 


BY      D 


BARTLKTT 


A  FKW  months  since,  while  wandering  over 
Europe,  we  saw  in  a  cemetery,  which  is  well 
known  to  foreign  travelers  for  its  solitary  beauty, 
the  grave  of  an  American.  The  sight  to  us  was 
one  full  of  sadness,  for  it  brouglit  to  our  memory 
sorrowful  scenes  and  hearts.  We  thought  of  those 
touching  lines  of  Mrs  Hemans : 

"The  sea,  the  blue,  lone  sea  hath  one, 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O'er  his  low  hed  may  weep. 

"  One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed, 
Ahove  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colors  round  his  breast. 
On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

"And  one — o'er  her  the  myrrh  showers 
Its  leaves,  by  soft  winds  fanned; 
She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band." 

The  grave  was  grassed  over  and  some  stranger's 
hand  had  planted  a  bunch  of  violets  at  its  head. 
It  was  a  breezeless  morning  of  June  when  we 
rested  upon  a  rustic  seat  near  the  grave,  and 
while  we  stayed  there,  thoughts  of  one,  who  was 
once  dear  to  us,  were  busy  at  our  heart. 

Arthur  Vinton,  was  the  only  son  of  a  widow 
who  lived  humbly  but  respectably  in  a  little  vil- 
lage of  New  England.  His  father  had  been  the 
pastor  of  his  native  town,  but  perished  when  Hen- 
ry was  young,  leaving  his  wife  a  boy  and  girl, 
the  cottage,  and  a  half  dozen  acres  of  soil.  As 
Arthur  grew  up  he  became  not  only  his  mother's 
pride  but  her  stay  and  support.  We  have  not 
time  to  delineate  all  the  young  man's  struggles 
to  gain  an  education,  or  tell  how  faithfully  he 
loved  his  mother  and  his  sister  Agnes.  He  was 
passionately  fond  of  painting,  and  from  a  mere 
boy  had  talked  of  going  to  Italy  as  the  dearest 
wish  of  his  heart,  but  how  he  ever  could  get  there, 
steeped  as  he  was  in  poverty,  he  knew  not.  When- 
ever he  talked  of  going  his  mother  sighed,  and 
Agnes  kissed  his  forehead,  saying:  "you  will  not 
leave  us  so  desolate!" 

But  a  rich  man  who  saw  some  of  his  perform- 
ances at  last  offered,  benevolently,  to  send  him 
two  years  to  Rome.     When  the  offer  came  Henry 


was  in  poor  health  but  his  dark  eyes  lighted  up 
with  hope,  his  heart  became  bouyant,  and  he  soon 
was  ready  to  start.  It  was  in  vain  that  Agnes 
wept  upon  his  shoulder,  that  his  mother  looked 
pale  and  sighed.  I  shall  come  back  famous, 
and  will  "  make  you  rich !"  he  said,  and  when 
they  saw  how  his  heart  was  set  upon  going 
they  said  no  more.  The  stage  was  to  call  be- 
fore day-break  for  him  at  the  cottage,  and  late 
at  night  he  laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow — but 
not  to  sleep.  He  saw  that  his  mother's  heart 
was  breaking,  and  that  his  gentle  Agnes  was 
drooping  beneath  her  sorrow.  It  was  a  quiet 
village,  they  were  all  in  all  to  each  other;  and 
only  such,  the  poor  and  neglected,  know  how  hard 
it  is  to  part  with  a  loved  one. 

Early  in  the  morning  he  rose,  and  greeted  his 
mother  and  sister.  He  knew  by  their  faces  that 
they  had  not  slept  any  that  night.  He  tried  to 
make  a  breakfast  but  had  no  appetite.  At  last 
the  stage  drove  up,  and  in  the  little  porch  in  the 
morning  starlight  he  bade  them  "  Good-by  !" 

Those  who  leave  homes  scarcely  ever  know 
how  lonely  and  sad  are  the  places  they  desert. 
All  that  day  Agnes  felt  as  if  her  heart  would 
faint,  so  cheerless  and  utterly  desolate  was  their 
home.  It  was  not  for  a  week  that  she  dared  go  up 
to  his  little  chamber.  Some  of  his  things  were 
there  still,  a  brush  he  had  used  in  painting,  a  few 
pictures,  and  a  volume  of  poetry.  She  sat  down, 
and  leaning  her  head  forward  upon  the  table, 
cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

By  this  time  Arthur  was  upon  the  ocean,  and 
had  felt  the  sublimity  of  its  grand  scenery. 
There  was  a  constant  succession  of  new  eights 
and  he  was  not  lonely ;  but  be  did  not  forget  for 
an  hour  the  dear  hearts  at  home. 

Afler  a  long  voyage  the  vessel  arrived  at  Leg- 
horn, and  Arthur  started  on  towards  Rome.  A 
strong  desire  forced  him  to  turn  aside  far  enough 
from  his  route  through  Florence,  to  go  to  Pisa,  in 
Tuscany,  and  see  the  famous  Leaning  Tower 
there. 

When  be  left  the  ship  he  was  not  well,  and 
when  he  arrived  at  tlie  ancient  and  beautiful  city 
of  Pisa,  he  drove  to  an  Inn  and  went  to  bed  for 


192 


THE  STRANGER'S  GRAVE 


he  was  ill.  The  reader  will  anticipate  the  rest. 
The  next  day  the  poor  young  man  was  in  a  deli- 
rium, and  was  dying  with  fever.  Physicians  and 
medicine  could  not  help  him,  for  he  gradually 
sank  beneath  the  disease. 

One  afternoon — it  was  in  August — he  lay  in 
his  chamber  and  a  western  window  lay  open  close 
by  his  side.  A  prettj^  Italian  girl  was  watching 
near  him,  when  suddenly  he  opened  his  eyes 
calmly,  and  looked  out  of  the  open  window. 

"  Where  am  I  ?"  he  asked  faintly.  The  Italian 
bent  over  him  to  catch  his  words,  and  murmured 
something  in  her  native  tongue.  The  language 
at  once  reminded  him  of  where  he  was.  "Ami 
very  ill  ?"  he  asked. 

"Ah!  yes,  signor"  replied  she  "but  we  hope 
you  will  not  die  !" 

The  truth  shocked  him — he  saw  by  her  woful 
look  that  he  must  die. 

"My  mother — Oh!  my  mother,  and  Agnes!" 
he  said  softly,  while  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
The  girl  comprehended  him ;  and  as  if  to  soothe  his 
heart,  pointed  to  a  picture  of  Christ  on  the  wall. 
His  eye  fixed  upon  it  and  a  pleasant  smile  came 
upon  his  face.  What  his  thoughts  were  we  can- 
not tell.  The  Italian  girl  took  her  seat  by  the 
casement,  and  looked  out  upon  the  beautiful  scene- 
ry, while  her  tears  dropped  fast  upon  the  flowers 
in  the  garden  below.  When  she  looked  again  at 
Arthur,  there  was  a  smile  upon  his  face ;  but  how 
fixed  were  the  features,  how  marble  the  eyelids  1 
A  slight  shriek  escaped  her,  and  then  she  knelt 
and  kissed  his  forehead — for  he  was  dead. 

Many  miles  away  from  Italy,  sat  Mrs.  Vinton 
one  day,  in  her  small  cottage,  with  Agnes,  plying 
her  needle,  at  her  side. 

"  It  is  strange,  mother,  we  dont  get  a  letter 
from  Arthur — is  it  not  ?"  said  she. 

"  He  is  very  busy  probably  at  first,  in  finding 
him  a  home  and  a  place  to  commence  his  labors, 
she  replied,  endeavoring  to  look  upon  the  sunny 
side  of  the  matter. 

"  Yes  mother,  but  I  know  he  would  write  as 
soon  as  he  got  to  Rome- — lie  knows  how  lonely 
we  are  here." 

Just  then  a  neighbor's  child  knocked  at  the 
cottage-door,  with  a  letter  from  the  post  oflSce. 


"Oh!  a  letter  from  Arthur,  mother — a  letter 
from  Arthur!"  fairly  shouted  Agnes.  As  soon 
however  as  the  letter  was  dropped  into  her  hand 
she  turned  very  pale. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  child  ?"  said  Mrs.  Vinton, 
hereby  alarmed. 

"  It  is  not  Arthur's  handwriting — it — oh ! 
mother,  mother,  I  can't  open  it !" 

The  mother  opened  it — it  was  from  the  Ame- 
rican Consul  at  Florence,  and  it  communicated 
news  of  Arthur's  death,  and  said  that  his  trunk 
and  personal  property,  of  whatever  kind,  had 
been  shipped  to  New  York.  We  dare  not  try  to 
describe  the  scene  which  followed  the  opening  of 
that  fatal  letter.  The  remembrance  of  it  even 
now  oppresses  our  heart.  There  are  scenes  of  sor- 
row in  this  world  where  no  stranger  may  intrude, 
and  this  was  one  of  them.  Years  have  passed 
away  since  then,  and  the  widow's  cottage  is  going 
to  decay.  Mrs.  Vinton  is  not  there ;  and  Agnes  is 
not  there  ;  but  their  graves  are  made  in  the  vil- 
lage church-yard.  The  shock  was  too  much  for 
the  frail  widow,  and  she  died.  After  her  death 
Agnes  supported  herself  for  two  or  three  years 
by  teaching  school,  but  she  was  spirit-broken  ;  and 
when  the  village-bell  tolled  for  her  funeral,  the 
villagers  were  not  surprised,  for  they  had  pre- 
dicted it  months  before. 

In  the  outskirts  of  the  town  of  Pisa,  in  Tuscany, 
there  is  a  pretty  and  lonely  cemetery.  There 
is  a  grave  there  also  with  a  simple  slab  at  its 
head  and  Arthur  Vinton's  name  is  upon  it — it 
was  erected  by  an  old  schoolmate  of  his.  The 
spot  is  scented  with  flowers,  and  the  cypress 
moves  its  solemn  branches  there  ;  the  grave  it- 
self is  garnished  like  a  nuptial  bed.  The  Italian 
girl  planted  the  flowers  there,  and  nursed  them  in 
memory  of  the  fair  stranger  who  perished  in  her 
father's  inn. 

"And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  played, 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 

Around  one  parent  knee  1 

They  that  with  smiles  lit  xip  the  hall, 
And  cheered  with  song  the  hearth 

Alas  !  for  love  if  thou  wert  all. 
And  naught  beyond,  on  earth! 


THE    LAW    OF    THRIFT. 


"Take  care  of  the  pence,  and  the  pounds  will 
take  care  of  themselves,"  said  one;  and  the  ex- 
perience of  every-day  life  gives  to  the  saying  the 
force  of  an  axiom.  Many  a  miUionaire  has  owed 
liis  envied  position  to  a  respect  for  pence  in  the 
outset ;  Jacques  Lafitte  would  never  have  risen 
to  be  the  Cronsus  of  modern  France,  did  he  not 
entertain  it — did  he  not  regard  trifles  :  and  many 
a  once  wealthy  man  can  trace  his  downward 
course  to  penury  to  a  reckless  disregard  of  small 
sums — in  short,  to  a  contempt  of  pence.  Every- 
thing around  us  teaches  us  that  we  should  enter- 
tain a  proper  respect  for  small  things,  as  the 
foundation  of  great  ones :  the  universe  is  compos- 
ed of  atoms — the  coral  reef  is  upheaved  by  the 
labor  of  a  tiny  insect  in  the  depths  of  the  ocean 
— trifles  make  up  the  great  sum  of  life  itself. 

"With  those,  who  have  only  their  health  and 
muscles  for  a  fortune,  and  who,  like  the  silk- 
worm, must  spin  all  their  riches  out  of  their  own 
bosom — industry  and  frugality  become,  as  we 
have  said  before,  solemn  duties,  which  they  have 
no  more  right  to  neglect  than  they  have  to  cast 
aside  their  implements  of  toil,  and  refuse  to  work 
for  their  daily  bread :  and  yet  how  often  do  we 
see  the  artizan,  with  a  numerous  progeny  clus 
tering  around  him,  with  a  fond  wife  depending 
on  his  exertions,  neglect,  although  he  has  ample 
opportunities,  to  lay  by  one  penny  to  aid  in  the 
hour  of  sickness,  or  to  help  his  family  should 
death  call  him  away.  It  is  a  bitter  thought  for 
a  dying  man,  that  they  who  crowd  around  his 
bed  with  anxious  solicitude — they  who  for  so 
many  years  he  has  loved  and  cheri.shed — who 
have  been  a  comfort  to  him  in  trouble,  and  a  so- 
lace in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity — that  the  dear 
being  who  has  journied  with  him  so  cheerfully 
along  the  stony  path  of  life,  and  who  ever  had  a 
smile  of  hope  for  iiim,  and  a  kind  word  to  bless 
him  when  his  soul  was  heavy — who  always  en- 
tered into  his  wishes,  and  sympatliiscd  with  his 
emotions — wiiose  warm  antl  faithful  heart,  over- 
flowing with  a  chaste  and  confiding  love,  was  ever 
busy  in  scheming  little  plans  to  give  him  pleasure, 
and  to  anticipate  his  unuttered  wishes  :  it  is  gall 
and  bitterness  to  a  dying  man  to  think  that  this 
dear  creature  and  his  little  ones,  should  be  left 
unprotected  in  the  wide  world  alone — in  tlie 
midst  of  unsympathising  strangers,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  the  workhouse  as  the  only  refuge  from 


starvation.  A  bleak  and  torturing  thought  is 
that,  to  wring  the  expiring  heart  of  a  dying  man ! 
It  is  seldom,  indeed,  that  one  who  has  passed  his 
life  so  thoughtlessly,  can  enjoy  that  inward 
consolation,  and  tliat  sustaining  hope,  which  ought, 
at  the  moment  of  death,  to  fill  the  soul  of  a 
Christian  :  his  anxious  mind  cannot  untwine  itself 
from  its  painful  reveries,  and  he  breathes  his  last 
without  the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  all  under- 
standing. 

We  consider  it,  then,  and  imperative  duty  that 
all  who  have  the  power,  should  save,  that  they 
should  husband  up,  little  by  little,  an  increasing 
store  for  their  future  wants.  Some  will  say,  that 
by  doing  this  we  are  showing  how  little  faith  we 
have  in  Providence ;  but  they  that  say  so,  speak  un- 
advisedly, and  might  as  well  argue  that,  if  we  saw 
a  child  in  the  water,  and  could  save  it,  we  ought 
not  to  do  so,  but  trust  to  Providence  for  its  rescue. 
It  is  our  duty  to  be  provident,  careful,  and  frugal : 
it  is  our  duty,  because  the  God  of  heaven  bade  us 
gather  up  the  fragments  that  remain,  and  to  allow 
nothing  to  be  lost.  We  must  not  act,  in  tliis 
railway  stirring  age,  like  the  wagoner  in  the  bog, 
but  embrace  the  opportunities  which  God  has 
given  us,  and  use  his  gifts  with  prudence.  Others 
will  say,  sufiicient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof, 
and  advise  us  to  think  less  about  what  may  hap- 
pen to  us  by  and  by  ;  but  they  draw  false  rea- 
soning from  another  holy  passage,  for  if  we  be- 
come the  humble  instruments  of  our  own  preser- 
vation from  pecuniary  want,  does  that  prove  less 
our  gratitude  to  Providence,  for  having  given  us 
the  means  to  do  so  ?  Yet  this  is  a  maxim,  which, 
when  indiscriminately  applied,  has  sometimes 
wrought  the  ruin  of  many,  both  good  and  noble. 
James  Ballantyne,  the  partner  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  on  his  death-bed  'affirmed,  that  many  of 
those  calamities  which  overtook  them,  and  which 
involved  the  ruin  of  the  great  literary  magician, 
was  owing  to  the  weakness  of  Scott  in  shrinking 
from  the  appearance  of  danger,  and  from  his  apt- 
ness to  carry  too  far  the  maxim,  that  "  suflicient 
for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof." 

Many  who  have  the  wish  to  be  frugal  will 
scarcely  know  how  to  begin:  they  have  lived  so 
long  the  thoughtless  spendthrift,  that  they  cannot 
be  thoughtful  all  at  once.  They  will  mention 
the  trifling  sum  that  forms  their  weekly  earnings, 
and  ask,  liow  is  it  possible  to  reserve  even  a  little, 


194 


THE   LAW    OF   THRIFT. 


out  of  such  a  pittance  ?  It  is  a  cheerful  proverb 
that  tell  us  "  Where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a 
way ;"  and  the  homely  truism  is  a  suitable  an- 
swer to  all  who  ask,  How  can  I  save  ? 

There  are  few  working  men  who,  if  they  have 
the  desire  to  be  economical,  will  not  call  to  mind 
some  useless  luxury,  in  which  they  are  in  the 
habit  of  indulging,  and  from  which  they  could 
easily  refrain.  Taste  and  caprice  have  invented 
an  infinite  variety  of  superficial  wants,  in  these 
modern  times,  which  are  as  unnecessary  to  our 
happiness,  as  some  of  them  are  injurious  to  our 
bodies.  Tlie  morning  glass,  the  evening  pipe,  or 
the  Saturday's  night  revel,  might  be  profitably 
dispensed  with,  both  to  the  health  and  to  the 
purse.  The  savings  may  not  be  great  at  first, 
but  frugality  will  have  gained  the  ascendancy  ; 
and  it  is  astonishing  how  much  prosperity  will 
follow,  and  how  many  opportunities  will  offer,  of 
■  adding  to  the  little  store,  if  prudence  and  indus- 
try are  on  the  watch.  Retrench,  in  every  rea- 
sonable manner,  your  expenses,  and  strictly  ad- 
here to  the  admirable  axiom  of  the  Roman 
poet — 

Infra 
Fortunam  debet  quisq  ;  manere  suam. — Ovid. 

and  recollect  the  words  of  Dr.  Cotton,  that 

Your  portion  is  not  large  indeed, 
But  then,  how  little  do  you  need. 

For  Nature's  calls  are  few; 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies, 
To  want  vo  jnore  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

There  are  few  who  have  not,  at  one  time  or 
other,  felt,  how  useful  a  few  pounds  would  have 
proved,  in  advancing  their  future  prospects ;  and 
who  have  not,  at  such  times,  looked  back  with 
regret  to  their  past  extravagance,  and  to  their 
thoughtlessness,  in  spending  stray  sixpences.     It 
is  only  when  we  count  up  such  trivial  sums,  that 
we  are  convinced  of  their  importance,  or  are  at 
all  capable  of  judging  how  much  we  have  lost 
by  squandering  them.     The  old  tale  of  the  poor 
drover,  who  gradually  scraped  enough  together 
to  purchase  a  calf  and,  from  that  small  begin- 
ning, went  on  until  he  became  the   possessor  of 
many  thousands  a-year,  is  an  instance  of  frugality 
worth  remembering ;  yet  let  it  never  be  forgot- 
ten that,  "although  the  apprehensions  of  future 
wants  may  justify  a  cautious  frugality,  they  can 
by  no  means  excuse  a  sordid  avarice."     Bearing 
this  in  mind,  the  lives  of  misers,  whilst  they 
pourtray  the  evils  of  an  inordinate  passion  to  ac- 
quire, also  illustrate  a  truism,  well  deserving  the 
attention  of  all   who   are   anxious   to    practice 
frugality  without  covetousness. 


Let  not  a  regard  for  little  things  be  thought 
a  manifestation  of  avarice.  The  Rothschilds, 
Barings,  Coutts',  Girards'  and  Astors'  would 
never  have  amassed  their  almost  fabulous  for- 
tunes, had  they  not  constantly  regarded  little 
things,  and  looked  well  after  the  pence.  Jacob 
Clement,  who  died  a  few  years  ago  in  London, 
leaving  a  fortune  of  three  hundred  thousand 
pounds,  began  life  as  a  pot-boy  at  an  inn.  His 
first  situation  was  as  a  waiter  ;  but  he  had  perse- 
verance, practiced  frugality,  and  encouraged 
habits  of  saving;  had  he  neglected  such  habits- 
he  would  probably  have  died  a  waiter.  There  is 
wisdosi  in  that  saying  of  the  miser,  who  main- 
tained, that  "a  farthing  is  the  semina  of  wealth, 
the  seed  of  a  golden  progeny  ;"  and  often  has  its 
truth  been  remembered,  not  only  by  misers,  but 
by  those  whose  virtues  have  only  been  equalled 
by  their  prosperity. 

The  sketch  of  the  life  of  Jolm  Overs,  whose 
daughter,  Mary  Overs,  founded  a  large  and  in- 
fluential church  in  London,  which  bears  her  name, 
is  exceedingly  graphic  and  interesting. 

John  Overs  was  a  miser,  living  in  the  old  days 
when  Popery  flourished,  and  friars  abounded  in 
England.  Some  of  his  vices  and  eccentricities 
have  been  chronicled  in  a  little  tract  of  great 
rarity,  entitled  "  The  True  History  of  the  Life 
and  Death  of  John  Overs,  and  of  his  Daughter 
Mary,  who  caused  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  Overs 
to  be  built."  But  in  giving  the  particulars  of  his 
life,  we  do  not  vouch  for  their  authenticity  :  the 
tract  resembles  too  strongly  a  chap  book,  to  bear 
the  marks  of  honest  truth ;  yet  the  anecdotes  are 
amusing,  and  the  tradition  of  the  miser's  pretty 
daughter  reads  somewhat  romantic. 

John  Overs  was  a  ferryman,  and  he  obtained, 
by  paying  an  annual  sum  to  the  city  authorities, 
a  monopoly  in  the  trade  of  conveying  passengers 
across  the  river.  He  soon  grew  rich,  and  became 
the  master  of  numerous  servants  and  apprentices. 
From  his  first  increase  of  wealth,  he  put  his 
money  out  to  use  on  such  profitable  terms,  that 
he  rapidly  amassed  a  fortune,  almost  equal  to 
that  of  the  first  nobleman  in  the  land  ;  yet,  not- 
withstanding this  speedy  accumulation  of  wealth, 
in  his  habits,  housekeeping,  and  expenses,  he 
bore  the  appearance  of  the  most  abject  poverty  ; 
and  was  so  eager  after  gain,  that  even  in  his  old 
age,  and  when  his  body  had  become  weak  by 
unnecessary  deprivations,  he  would  labor  inces- 
santly, and  allow  himself  no  rest  or  repose.  This 
most  miserly  wretch,  it  is  said,  had  a  daughter, 
remarkable  both  for  her  piety  and  betiuty  ;  the 
old  man,  in  spite  of  his  parsimonious  habits,  re- 
tained some  affection  for  his  child,  and  bestowed 
upon  her  a  somewhat  liberal  educatioa. 


THE    LAW    OF   THRIFT. 


195 


Mary  Overs  had  no  sympathy  with  the  avarice 
and   selfishness   of  her   parent;    she   grew    up 
endowed    with    amiability,    and    with    a    true 
maiden's    heart   to  love.      As   she    appronched 
■womanhood,  her  dazzling  charms  attracted  nu- 
merous suitors  ;  but  the  miser  refused  all  matri- 
monial offers,  and  even  declined  to  negotiate  the 
matter  on  any  terms,  although  some  of  wealth 
and  rank  were  willing  to  wed  with  the  ferryman's 
daughter.     Mary  was  kept  a  close  prisoner,  and 
forbidden  to  bestow  her  smiles  upon  any  of  her 
admirers,  nor  were  any  allowed  to  speak  with 
her  ;  but  love  and  nature  will  conquer  bolts  and 
bars,  as  well  as  fear ;  and  one  of  lier  suitors  took 
the  opportunity,  whilst  the  miser  was  busy  pick- 
ing up  hi^  penny  fares,  to  get  admitted  to, her 
company.      The   first   interview   pleased   well; 
another  was  granted  and  arranged,  which  pleased 
still   better ;    and   a    third  ended   in   a   mutual 
plighting  of  their  troths.     During  all  these  trans- 
actions at  home,  the  silly  old  ferryman  was  still 
busy  with  his  avocation,  not  dreaming  but  that 
things  were  as  secure  on  land  as  they  were  on 
water. 

John  Overs  was  of  a  disposition  so  wretched 
and  miserly,  that  he  even  begrudged  his  servants 
their  necessary   food.     He   used   to   buy  black 
puddings,  which  were  then  sold  in  London  at  a 
penny  a  yard  ;  and  whenever  he  gave  them  their 
allowance,  he  used  to  say,  "  There  you  hungry 
dogs,  you  will  undo  me  with  eating."     He  would 
Ecarcelj'  allow  a  neighbor  to  obtain  a  light  from 
his  candle,  lest  he  should  in  some  way  impoverish 
him  by  taking  some  of  its  light.     He  used  to  go 
to  market  to  search  for  bargains;  he  bought  the 
siftings  of  the  coarse  meal,  looked  out  eagerly  for 
marrow-bones   that   could    be   purchased   for   a 
trifle,  and  scrupled  not  to  convert  them  into  soup, 
if  they  were  mouldy.     He    bought   the   stalest 
bread,  and  he  used  to  cut  it  into  slices,   "  that, 
taking  the  air,  it  might  become  the  harder  to  be 
eaten."  Sometimes  he  would  buy  meat  so  tainted 
that  even  his   dog  would  refuse  it ;    upon  which 
occasions,  he  used  to  say  that  it  was  a  dainty  cur, 
and  better  fed  than  taught,  and  then  eat  it  him- 
self.    He  needed  no  cats,  for  all  the  rats  and 
mice  voluntarily  left  the   house,  as  nothing  was 
cast  aside  from  which  they  could  obtain  a  picking. 
It  is  said  that  this  sordid  old  man  resorted  one 
day  to  a  most  singular  stratagem,  fortlie  purpose 
of  saving  a  day's  provision  in  his  establishment. 
He  counterfeited  illness,  and  pretended  to  die; 
he  compelled  his  daughter  to  assist  in  the  decep- 
tion, much  against  her  inclination.    Overs  imagin- 
ed that,  like  good  Catholics,  his  servants  would 
not  be  so  unnatural  as  to  partake  of  food  whilst 
his  body  was  above  ground,  but  would  lament 


his  loss,  and  observe  a  rigid  fast ;  when  the  day 
was  over,  he  intended  to  feign  a  sudden  recovery^ 
He  was  laid  out  as  dead,  and  wrapped  in  a  sheet, 
a  candle  was  placed  at  his   head,  in  accordance 
with  the  Popish  custom  of  the  age.    His  appren- 
tices were  informed  of  their  master's  death  ;  but, 
instead  of  manifesting  grief,  they  gave  vent  to  the 
most  unbounded  joy  ;   hoping,  at  last,  to  be  re- 
leased from  their  hard  and  penurious  servitude. 
They   hastened   to   satisfy    themselves    of    the 
truth  of  this  joyful  news,  and  seeing  him   laid 
out  as  dead, could  not  even  restrain  their  feelings 
in  the  presence  of  death,   and  actually  danced 
and  skipped  around  the  corpse;  tears  or  lamen- 
tations  they  had   none ;    and  as   to   fasting,  an 
empty-belly  admits  of  no  delay.     In  the  ebul- 
lition  of   their  joy,  one   ran   into    the   kitchen, 
and  breaking  open  the  cupboard,  brought  out  the 
bread ;  another  ran  for  the  cheese,  and  brought 
it  forth  in  triumph  ;  and  the  third  drew  a  flagon 
of  ale.  They  all  sat  down  in  high  glee,  congratula- 
ting and  rejoicing   among  themselves,  at  having 
been  so  unexpectedly  released  from  their  bonds  of 
servitude.     Hard  as  it  wa^,  the  bread  rapidly 
disappeared ;  they    indulged  in   huge   slices   of 
cheese,  even  ventured  to  cast  aside  the  parings, 
and  to  take  copious  draughts  of  the  miser's  ale. 
The  old  man  lay  all  this  time  struck  with  horror 
at  this  awful   prodigality,  and  enraged  at  their 
mutinous   disrespect :  flesh  and  blood — at  least, 
the  flesh  and  blood  of  a  miser — could  endure  it 
no  longer;  and  starting  up  he  caught  hold  of  the 
funeral  taper,  determined  to  chastise  them  for 
their  waste.     One  of  them  seeing  the  old  man 
struggling  in  the  sheet,  and  thinking  it  was  the 
\  devil  or  a  ghost,  and  becoming  alarmed,  caught 
hold  of  the  butt  end  of  a  broken  oar,  and  at  one 
blow  struck  out  his  brains  !     "Tims,"  says  the 
tradition,  ''  he,  who  thought  only  to  counterfeit 
death,  occasioned   it   in   earnest;  and   the  law 
acquitted  the  fellow  of  the  act,  as  he  was  the 
prime  cause  of  his  own  death."     The  daughter's 
lover,  hearing  of  the  death  of  old  Overs,  hastened 
up  to  London  with  all  possible  speed  ;  but  riding 
fast,  his  horse  unfortunatly  threw  him,  just  as  he 
was  entering  the  city,  and  broke  his  neck.     This, 
with  her  father's  death,  had  such  an  off'ect  on  the 
spirits  of  Mary  Overs,  that  she  was  almost  frantic, 
and  being  troubled  witli  a  numerous  train  of  sui- 
tors, she  resolved  to  retire  into  a  nunnery,  and  to 
devote  the  whole  of  her  wealth,  which  was  enor- 
mous, to  purposes  of  charity  and  religion.     She 
laid  the  foundation  of  "a  famous  church,  which 
at  her  own  charge  was  finished,  and  by  her  dedi- 
cated to  the  Virgin  Mary." 

Whilst  we  abhor  the  abuse,  and  think  it  well 
to  guard  others  by  hideous  examples  of  its  folly 


196 


YOUTH. 


and  vice,  we  can  appreciate  and  participate  in  its 
general  use.  We  look  upon  it  as  a  solemn  duty 
in  men,  whether  regarded  as  citizens  or  fathers  of 
families,  to  practice  a  prudent  economy  ;  and  the 
man  who  is  frugal  without  being  avaricious — who 
is  parsimonious  without  being  sordid — we  regard 
as  fulfiling  one  of  his  greatest  social  duties.  If 
economy  is  a  virtue,  wastefulness  is  a  sin ;  and 
yet  how  many  weekly  glory  in  being  thought  ex- 
travagant !  Ruined  spendthrifts  will  boast  of 
their  meanless  prodigality  and  their  wasteful 
dissipation,  as  if  in  their  past  liberal  selfishness 
they  could  claim  some  forbearance  for  their  pre- 


sent disrepute,  or  some  compassion  for  the  mis- 
fortunes into  which  their  own  heedlessness  has 
thrown  them.  The  learned,  too,  will  disdain  all 
knowledge  of  the  dull  routine  of  economy,  and 
proclaim  their  ignorance  of  the  affairs  of  life,  as 
if  the  confession  endowed  them  with  a  virtue ; 
but  perfection  is  not  the  privilege  of  any  order  of 
men,  and  many  who  ought  to  have  been  the  mon- 
itors of  mankind,  whose  talents  have  made  their 
names  immortal,  imbittered  their  lives,  and  im- 
paired the  vigor  of  their  intellects  by  their 
thoughtless  and  wanton  extravagance. 


YOUTH. 


SUGGESTED    BY    COLE'S   PAINTING. 


BY      REV, 


JOHNSON,      JACKSONVILLE,      ILL, 


Splendid  phantoms  fill  thy  vision — 
Youth,  -upon  life's  flowing  tide — 

Pictures  of  that  land  Elysian, 

Whence  thy  dreams  of  hope  have  hied. 

Scarcely  seems  the  swift  boat  moving, 

To  thy  too  impatient  mind, 
Since  thy  wish,  more  swiftly  roving, 

Leaves  thyself  so  far  behind. 

Bright  against  yon  empyrean, 

Stands  the  fane  that  shrines  thy  soul. 
There  how  soon  shall  victory's  pfean 

Round  the  lofty  columns  roll ! 
Yes,  how  soon,  oh  eager  mortal, 

Shall  those  shining  courts  be  thine  ; 
Fair  within  whose  glittering  portal, 

Wait  for  thee  the  storied  Nine. 

"Well  I  know  such  pleasant  dreaming 
Sends  that  lustre  to  thine  eye  ; 

And,  with  feverish  fancies  teeming, 
Makes  thy  pulses  wildly  fly. 

Lo  1  upon  the  shore  beside  thee. 
Thou  hast  left  the  angel  friend, 

Who  was  kindly  sent  to  guide  thee, 
Till  the  voyage  of  life  should  end. 

Still  she  seems  in  love  to  linger, 
On  that  calm,  enchanted  shore, 

As  if  sad  to  loose  her  finger 

From  the  helm  it  pressed  before. 

Oh,  if  thou  woaldst  turn  from  linking 
Airy  thoughts,  and  lofty  schemes, 

And  for  once  of  her  bethinking, 

Ask  what  truth  is  in  thy  dreatns. — 

'•  Youth," — she  then  would  say  unto  thee  — 
"  Sailing  down  this  rapid  tide, 

Painted  joys  are  those  that  woo  thee 
Far  and  fleeting  from  my  side. 

"  Yonder  palace,  though  appearing 
But  a  league  thy  bark  before, 


Thou  mayst  keep  forever  nearing, 
But  shaft  enter  nevermore. 

"  As  the  child,  at  morning  hieing 
Toward  the  red  horizon's  rim. 

But  at  evening  sad  and  sighing. 
That  the  skies  have  cheated  him. — 

"  Thus,  although  in  swift  recession 
Life's  gay  banks  may  pass  thee  by. 

Yonder  fane,  with  like  progression. 
From  thy  touch  shall  swiftly  fly. 

"  Gold  and  Fame  in  fullest  measures, 
At  thy  feet,  their  gifts  may  pour. 

But  these  never  reared  the  treasures 
Beckoning  thee  from  yonder  shore. 

"  Never  raised  they  for  a  mortal 
Shelter  from  affliction's  dart, 

Or,  within  their  shining  portal. 
Spread  fruition  for  the  heart. 

"  '  Tis  a  phantom  thou  art  viewing. 
False  and  fatal,  though  so  fair  ; 

And  when  weary  with  pursuing, 

Naught  shall  greet  thee — but  despair  ! 

"  Take  me  back,  oh  youth  !     I  pray  thee 
To  the  helm  that  knows  my  hand, 

And  this  life-stream  shall  convey  thee 
To  a  fair  and  happy  land  : 

"  To  a  temple  where  are  singing 
Peace  and  Joy,  in  silver  notes; 

O'er  whose  dome,  its  shadow  flinging. 
Love's  white  banner  ever  floats. 

"There,  life's  voyage  serenely  ending, 

And  the  bark  moored  by  the  shore. 
Shall  thy  song,  with  seraphs'  blending. 

Tell  thy  raptures  evermore  !" 
Tell  me,  eager  youth,  I  pray  thee. 

Hath  that  voice  thy  spirit  stirred  ? 
Or  shall  its  appeals  to  stay  thee 

Powerless  be,  as  if  unheard  ? 


LUTHER    AND   HIS    WORK. 


BY     A      CLERaTlIAN 


On  the  17th  July,  1505,  a  young  man,  who 
was  studying  at  the  University  of  Erfurt,  in  Ger- 
many, invited  his  friends  to  his  lodgings,  to  pass 
the  evening  together.     The  frugal  supper  was 
over ;  they  had  some  cheerful  exercises  in  music. 
At  the  close,  he  told  his  companions,  that  it  was 
their  last  meeting  together  in  this  free  capacity — 
"  To-morrow    I    become    a    monk."     This   was 
Luther.     He  had  been  intended  by  his  father  for 
a  lawyer,  but  the  death  of  a  friend,  and  a  peril 
of  death  he  had   been  in  himself,  made  him  re- 
solve to  abandon  the  world.     In  the  heart  of  this 
man,  the  Reformation  was  to  enact  itself  before 
it  came  forth  to  history.     Mark  his  thought  at 
the  date  of  the  supper.     As  a  student  teacher, 
lawyer,  lie  could  not  be  holy  enough,  could  not 
be  secure  enough  of  heaven.    The  monastery  is 
holy,  the  mouk  is  holy.     By  this  means  I  shall 
attain  to  heaven.     The  European  man  has  come 
up  out  of  the  hold,  has  left  his  parents,  his  friends, 
his  studies  below.    He  presses  up  to  join   those 
noble   men  who   have  continual  access  to  God. 
Honestly  he  strove   to  be  a  monk,  did   monkish 
duties  with  earnestness  and  zeal,    found,  to  his 
sorrow,  that  he  had  not  left  the  world   behind 
him,  and  had  sore  buttles  in  the  inner  man.     It 
was  his  thought  that  divine   influences   entered 
the   soul  by   attending    to   Church    ordinances. 
With  streaming  eyes  he   waited  for  these   in- 
fluences ;  for  the  pardon  of  his  sins,   above  all. 
He  knelt  at  the  altar,  and  sought  for  it ;  he  came 
back  to  his  cell,  and  sought  for  it ;  lie  wanted  sleep, 
that  he  might  find  it.     One  morning  the  brethren 
find  his  cell-door   shut,  and   have   to    force   it 
open.     Fra  Martin  is  stretched  upon  the  ground 
insensible.     One  of  the  monks  took  a  flute  and 
played  an  air  that  Luther  loved,  and  gradually 
he  was  restored.     He  was  not  at  peace  with  God. 
He  was  a  monk,  but  the  imrest  remained.     He 
did  all  a  monk's  duties,  but  it  was  not  removed. 
His  soul  was  full  of  trouble. 

It  is  the  birth  throes  of  the  European  heart 
bringing  forth  Faith.  The  thought  was  at  work 
in  Luther,  but  he  could  not  yet  give  words  to  it, 
that  the  priesthood  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven 
from  the  people.  He  had  stumbled  upon  a  dusty 
Bible   in   the  Erfurt  University  Library.       The 


people  knew  nothing  of  it ;  the  monks  had  for- 
gotten it.  Here  is  God's  own  Word,  he  said  ; 
here  God  speaks  out  direct  to  me.  He  began  to 
study  the  Bible  in  the  original.  Other  monks,  in 
whom  the  good  work  was  going  on,  gave  counte- 
nance to  hiiu.  Others,  again,  told  him  to  mind 
his  monastic  duties.  He  did  mind  them.  He 
swept  the  monastery,  begged  for  the  monastery, 
prayed  in  the  monastery,  did  penance ;  but  his 
soul  was  not  at  peace.  "  This  black  heart  of 
mine,"  he  cried  ;  "  these  sins,  day  after  day,  hour 
after  hour ;  this  prepetual  inclination  to  sin — who 
shall  free  me  from  all  this  ? "  His  soul's  trouble 
brings  his  body  to  the  brink  of  the  grave.  An 
old  monk  entered  his  cell.  He  repeated  the 
words  of  the  creed,  "  I  believe  in  the  forgiveness 
of  sin."  He  told  his  young  brother  it  was  not 
enough  to  believe  that  David's  sins  and  Peter's 
sins  were  forgiven.  The  commandment  is,  that 
"  we  believe  our  own  sins  forgiven." 

The  word  was  uttered  ;  the  light  had  dawned  ; 
Luther  Wiis  standing  face  to  face  with  the  infinite 
mercy  of  God.     He  has  entered  into  the  peace 
which   passeth  understanding.       "I  have   been 
begging,  and  sweeping,  and  praying,  that  by  re- 
peating these  acts  I  might  procure  the  pardon  of 
my  sins."     And,  lo !  my  Father  has  been  standing 
by  me  all   the  time,    holding   it  out   to  me,   be- 
seeching me  to  believe,  that  what  I  was  seeking 
for  by  monastic  works  was  mine  already  by  his 
infinite  graci'.     And  yet  Luther's  own  mind  was 
not  wholly  free.     His  brethren  sent  him  to  Rome  ' 
on  some  monastic  business.     He  ran  from  church 
to  church,  doing  those  exercises  which  were  pre- 
scribed  for  the  salvation  of  his  soul,  shocked  at 
everything,  and  yet   believing  everything.     Be- 
hold  him  one    day  on   his   knees,  climbing   up 
Pilate's  staircase.     He  who  does  this  shall  have 
an   indulgence — a   boon  of  future   mercy   from 
Heaven.      It  was  too  late  for  the  German  monk. 
The  Erfurt  Bible  was  in  his  heart.     And  ever  as 
he  clomb  another  step— by  this  climbing  of  a 
material  stair,  striving  to  possess  more  of  God's 
life — a  voice  from   the  bottom  of  his  heart  cried 
I  to  him,  in  tones  of  thunder,  "  Luther,  Luther,  not 
!  by  climbing  stairs;  not   by  works  of  this  sort! 
I  The  just  shall  live  by  faith." 


198 


LUTHER   AND    HIS   WORK, 


The  work  was  done.  That  side  of  the  Refor- 
raation  which  was  a  protest  against  the  clergy- 
church,  was  realized  in  the  heart  of  this  man. 
Luther's  preaching  was  practically,  although 
at  first  he  was  not  conscious  of  it,  a  denial  of 
official  Driesthood.  He  said,  "It  is  a  business  of 
thine  own,  my  brother."  This,  too,  was  a  denial 
of  it.  But  it  was  when  he  stood  up  in  his  Witten- 
berg pulpit,  and,  out  of  the  fullness  of  his' own  ex- 
perience and  his  knowledge  of  the  Word,  pointed, 
on  the  one  side,  to  the  sins  of  those  who  heard 
him,  and,  on  the  other,  direct  to  the  mercy  of  God, 
that  the  great  protest  was  made.  That  a  man 
might  be  saved  without  the  priest — that  salva- 
tion did  not  flow  to  the  heart  through  the  Church  : 
this  was  the  new  thing  he  uttered.  He  came  to 
light  still  clearer.  His  industrious  piety  re- 
ceived large  accessions  of  knowledge.  He  came 
to  see  that  a  great  evil  had  dominated  over  the 
consciences  of  men.  "  The  ecclesia — the  Church 
— does  nort  exist,"  he  said,"  for  the  people. 
The  clergy  alone  are  the  Church.  They  only  par- 
take the  symbol  of  brotherhood.  Is  not  every 
man  a  brother  ?  Is  not  the  Lord  brother  to  every 
man  ?  What  means  the  incarnation  if  He  is  not  ? 
It  was  my  flesh,  not  priest's  flesh.  The  Word 
has  hallowed  my  flesh.  My  human  nature  has 
thereby  been  brought  into  contact  with  the  Word 
of  God.  I  am  related  direct  to  that  Word.  So 
are  all  men.  All  men  who  recognize  this  rela- 
tion recognize  also  that  they  are  priests.  The 
believer  is  a  priest;  may  stand  for  himself  in 
God's  presence ;  does  not  need  a  fellow-man  to 
go  into  that  presence  for  him." 

In  this  aspect,  the  Reformation  was  a  new 
rending  of  the  vail — a  new  assertion  of  the  doc- 
trine, that  separate  official  priesthoods  had 
ceased,  and  that  each  believer  stands  for  himself, 
an  anointed  priest  at  God's  altar,  to  perform  a 
priest's  function  there.  "  If  a  priest  is  killed," 
said  Luther,  in  one  of  his  earliest  tracts,  "  the 
■whole  district  is  put  under  ban.  Why  not  just 
the  same  when  a  poor  peasant  has  been  mur- 
dered ?  We  are  all  priests."  In  other  words : 
Europe  is  crying,  "  Good  for  us  to  be  safe  in  the 
hold  when  storms  are  ahead,  and  to  have  no  care. 
But  we  have  awaked  to  see  that  there  is  no  hold. 
The  hatch  is  gone  :  the  deck  is  torn  up.  We  are 
in  an  open  boat.  And  God  is  calling  us  to  look 
with  our  own  eyes  upon  the  terrors  and  the 
splendors  of  His  universe,  and  to  listen,  each 
soul  for  himself,  to  the  Word  which  He  has 
spoken." 

We  speak  of  the  past.  We  talk  of  Pope  and 
Protestant  now,  no  man  making  us  afraid.  With 
Luther  it  was  not  so  easy.  He  did  not  feel  it  to 
be  easy.     How  often,  he  says,   during   the  first 


year  or  two,  did  I  ask  myself  if  it  were  not  pre- 
sumption in  me !  His  journey  to  Rome  opened 
his  eyes.  Then  came  Tetzel,  selling  indulgences. 
The  two  elements  of  the  Reformation  rose  up  in 
Luther  against  this  proceeding.  First  of  all,  he 
saw  it  to  be  a  lie,  that  mere  writing  on  a  bit  of 
paper  could  forgive  sins.  Next,  he  was  indig- 
nant that,  by  means  of  this  lie,  good  German 
money  should  go  to  Rome.  He  denounced  Tet- 
zel, exposed  the  falsehood,  challenged  the  whole 
priesthood  to  debate  the  matter  with  him.  No 
one  minded  the  Saxon  monk  at  first.  By  and  by, 
however,  he  is  found  to  be  dangerous.  A  papal  bull 
is  issued  against  him.  His  books  are  to  be  burnt. 
He  himself  is  to  repair  to  Rome.  What  will 
Luther  do?  He  invited  the  members  of  the 
university  and  the  officials  of  Wittenberg  to 
meet  him,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the 
10th  December,  1520,  at  the  east  gate,  opposite 
the  Church  of  the  holy  Cross,  and  there,  not  with- 
out solemnity,  he  did  what  never  European  man 
hitherto  had  courage  to  do,  committed  the  bull, 
and  all  papal  pamphlets  and  books  connected 
with  it,  or  the  question  at  issue,  to  the  flames. 

The  game  is  up.  "The  mighty  hunter,"  as 
Luther  called  the  Pope,  demanded  the  victim. 
■  His  peril  was  great.  He  is  summoned  to  Worms, 
to  meet  the  emperor  and  the  German  princes,  to 
answer  for  his  doctrines.  And  on  to  Worms  went 
emperor,  prince  and  peasant,  all  anxious  to  see 
the  man  who  had  dared  to  lift  his  voice  against 
the  Pope.  "  Do  not  go,"  said  his  friends.  "  I  will 
go,"  said  Luther,  "if  there  were  as  many  devils 
in  Worms  as  there  are  tiles  on  its  house-tops." 

On  the  2d  of  April,  1521,  he  sets  out.  Turn- 
ing to  Melancthon,  he  said,  "  If  I  am  put  to  death, 
cease  not,  oh,  my  brother,  to  teach  and  remain 
firm  in  the  truth.  If  tliou  art  spared,  what  mat- 
ters it  that  I  perish  ?"  He  stepped  into  a  low 
wagon,  with  block  wheels,  which  the  magis- 
trates of  Wittenberg  had  provided.  From  Witten- 
berg to  Leipsic,  from  Leipsic  to  Nuremberg 
from  thence  to  Weimar — all  was  gloom.  Every- 
body looked  on  him  as  a  man  marching  to  his 
grave.  Next  he  came  to  Erfurt.  Here,  when  a 
little  boy,  he  had  sung  at  the  doorsof  the  rich  for 
bread  ;  here  he  had  been  a  distinguished  student ; 
here  he  first  saw  a  Bible.  There  is  no  gloom  in 
Erfurt.  Their  old  scholar  comes  back.  Tliey 
come  out  on  horseback  to  give  him  welcome ; 
they  line  the  streets  to  give  him  cheer.  '-Thou 
must  preach  to  us,"  they  said.  The  herald  con- 
sented. He  was  led  into  the  church.  Often  had 
he  swept  its  floors,  and  opened  and  locked  its 
doors,  in  days  long  past.  And  now  he  is  in  the 
pulpit.  His  text  was,  "  Peace  be  unto  you  :  and 
when  Jesus  had  so  said,  he  showed  them  his  hands 


LUTHER   AND   HIS   "WORK. 


199 


and  his  side."  "Life  comes  from  Him,"  he  said. 
"  One  builds  a  church,  another  goes  a  pilgrimage, 
a  third  fasts,  a  fourth  puts  on  a  cowl  and  goes 
barefoot.  All  vanity  this.  But  Christ  hath  risen 
from  the  dead :  this  is  the  -work  of  salvation." 
From  Erfurt  to  Gotha;  from  Gotha  to  Frankfort. 
In  Frankfort,  they  took  him  to  a  school,  and  he 
blessed  the  boys.  One  stage  more,  at  Oppenheim 
— and  then  I 

At  last,  on  the  morning  of  the  IGth,  he  is  in 
sight  of  Worms.  His  heart  is  leaning  on  the 
Lord.  At  Oppenheim,  he  had  composed  a  hymn 
and  set  it  to  music.  When  he  beheld  the  tower 
of  the  ancient  city,  where  the  fate  of  the  Refor- 
mation was  to  be  decided,  he  rose  up  in  his  wa- 
gon, and  sang  the  hymn.  The  Germans  sing  it  to 
this  day.     We  give  Carlyle's  translation  : — 

"A  safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still — 

A  trusty  sliield  and  weapon  ; 
H9"ll  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 

That  hath  us  now  o'ertaken 
The  ancient  prince  of  hell 
llath  risen  with  purpose  fell  ; 

Strong  mail  of  craft  and  power 

He  weareth  in  this  hour — 
On  earth  is  not  his  fellow. 

With  force  of  arms  we  nothing  can  ; 

Full  soon  were  we  dow^n-ridden  ; 
But  for  us  fights  the  proper  man, 

Whom  God  himself  hath  bidden. 
Ask  ye,  Who  is  this  same  ? 
Jesus  Christ  is  his  name, 

The  Lord  Zebaoth's  son  ; 

He,  and  no  other  one, 
Shall  conquer  in  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  devils  o'er, 

And  watching  to  devour  us, 
We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore — 

We  know  they  can't  o'erpower  us. 
And  let  the  prince  of  ill 
Look  grim  as  e'er  he  will, 

He  harms  us  not  a  whit. 

For  why  ?     His  doom  is  writ — 
A  word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 

God's  Word,  for  all  their  craft  and  force, 

One  moment  will  not  linger. 
But,  spite  of  hell,  shall  have  its  course — 

'Tis  written  by  his  finger. 
And  though  they  take  our  life, 
Goods,  houses,  children,  wife. 

Yet  is  their  profit  small ; 

These  things  shall  vanish  all — 
God's  city,  it  remaineth." 

Next  morning  he  is  summoned  to  appear.  He 
stands  there,  in  the  old  imperial  hall,  alone,  in 
the  presence  of  princes,  nobles,  dignitaries  of  the 
church,  and  the  young  emperor.  A  manly  mod- 
esty overpowers  him  at  the  first.  He  a^^ks  one 
day  to  prepare  his  answers.  On  the  18th  April, 
then,  in  the  afternoon,  he  is  borne  by  soldiers 
tlirough  the  crowded  streets  of  Worms,  into  the 


imperial    presence  once  more.     Yesterday,  the 
emperor  and   the    princes   were  struck  by   hia 
timidity,  today,  by  his  frank,  unboastful  open- 
ness.    "  I  am  here,''  he  said,  "  to  answer  for  my 
books.     In  one  part  of  those  books,  I  say  that 
man  is  saved   by  God's  mercy,  and  not  by  going 
pilgrimages,  and  doing  penances,  and  the  like; 
this  part  I  dare  not  retract.     A  second  portion  of 
my  writings  is  directed  against  papal  abuses  and 
tyranny  ;    this  part,  the  abuses  existing,  it  would 
be  wrong  to  retract.     In  a  third  portion  of  my 
works,  I  have  used  personalities  and  hasty  words 
which,  in  my  more  retired  moments,  I  regret  ; 
this  portion  I  most  heartily  give  up."    He  added, 
"  I   am    a   man ;    I   mai/  have    formed   wronjf 
notions.     If  there  be  anything  in  my  teaching 
opposed  to  Scripture,  show  me  what  it  is  ;  and 
that  which  is  so  opposed  I  will  retract :  no  more.' 
The  ofiicial  who  questioned  him  was  not  satisfied. 
"  Thou  art  to  answer  simply,  not  to  preach  to 
us ;  yes,  or  no ;   retract  or  not  retract."     "  Since, 
then,  your  impartial  majesty  and  your  highnesses 
demand  a  simple  answer,   I  will  give  you  one. 
Unless  I  am  convicted  of  error  by  the  testimony 
of  Scripture,  I  cannot,  and  will  not  retract.    .  .    . 
I  have  done.     God  help  me.     Amen." 

This  was  the  culminating  point  of  Luther's 
protest ;  the  upbreaking  of  the  dark  morning 
cloud.  And  yet  this  formed  but  a  poor  portion 
of  the  work  Luther  did : — Preaching,  teaching, 
writing  books,  sermons,  pamphlets,  translating 
and  commenting  on  the  Bible,  and  bearing  the 
whole  burden  of  the  churches.  From  this  point, 
forward,  flows  the  outer  history  of  the  Refor- 
mation. 

For  those  who  wish  to  study  Luther,  we  shall 
mention  the  two  works  of  Ranke — his  History  of 
the  Popes  who  have  reigned  since  the  Refor- 
mation, and  the  History  of  the  Reformation  itself. 
A  book  easier  to  reail,  but  theatrical  and  one- 
sided a  little,  is  D'Aubigne's;  and  Robertson's 
"  History  of  Charles  X. ;"  and  Michelet's  ''  Life 
of  Luther."  We  especially  recommend  this  last 
book.  It  is  made  up  of  extracts  from  Luther's 
letters,  sermons,  and  table-talk.  Luther  depicts 
Luther  in  it;  and  you  are  struck  by  finding  your- 
self in  the  company  of  quite  an  ordinary-looking 
mortal.  There  is  nothing  of  the  "  great  man" 
about  him  ;  no  airs,  no  assumption  of  superiority. 
It  is  not  a  monk  who  is  beside  you ;  it  is  a  man 
who  was  never  meant  to  be  a  monk — a  homely, 
rather  jovial  man,  who  will  take  a  can  of  beer 
with  you  of  an  evening,  and  pin-  uis  flute,  and  be 
delighted  with  your  son--. 

"  People  fancy,"  he  once  said,  "  because  I  am 
joyous  and  jovial,  that  I  recline  upon  a  bed  of 


200 


LUTHER   AND   HIS    WORK. 


roses.  God  knows  how  far  wrong  they  are." 
Yes,  indeed,  they  were  wrong  Under  all  that 
joviality,  there  was  a  soul  enlarging  itself,  by 
severe  discipline,  by  active  thought,  by  untiring 
prayer,  to  know  more  and  more  of  God.  But  it 
was  a  soul  that  led  its  life  in  secret ;  that  knew 
the  value  of  the  counsel,  "  Vhen  ye  fast  be  not 
as  the  hypocrites  "  Luther  was  no  hypocrite ; 
was  not  evon  sanctimonious ;  had  notions  on  many 
things  which  would  be  counted  loose  in  our  day. 
But  he  was  honest ;  spoke  out  the  word  which  it 
was  right  to  speak,  whether  it  was  rebuke, 
or  sermon,  or  joke,  and  had  no  reserves ;  he 
gave  you  his  frank  opinion,  and  the  ground  on 
which  it  rested  ;  if  he  discovered  he  was  wrong, 
as  frankly  he  retracted. 

We  look  upon  his  conduct  in  relation  to  the 
peasants'  war,  as,  perhaps,  the  highest  outcome 
of  this  honesty.  This  war  was  a  direct  result  of  his 
work  ;  I  mean,  it  was  one  of  the  evils  which  flow- 
ed out  of  the  principle  of  private  judgment.  If 
Luther  was  right  in  revolting  from  the  Pope,  the 
peasant  is  right  in  revolting  from  his  prince. 
Everybody  saw  that  it  was  a  result  of  Luther's 
principles.  The  German  nobles,  who  had  sym- 
pathized with  the  reformer  hitherto,  turned  to 
ask  him  what  this  meant.  If  Luther  declare  for 
the  peasants,  the  princes  will  forsake  him  ;  if 
he  declare  for  the  princes,  the  peasants  will  lose 
confidence  in  him.  What  does  Luther  care  ? 
There  is  a  word  which  it  is  right  for  God's  speak- 
ing-man to  speak,  and  he  straightway  speaks  it 
out.  '"Ye  princes,  ye  men-in  power,  in  tliis  out- 
break ye  are  not  without  blame.  These  peasants 
are  God's  instruments  to  punish  you  fur  your  lux- 
ury and  oppressions.  Trample  them  ;  but  God 
will  raise  peasants  out  of  the  stones  to  afflict  and 
to  bring  you  to  do  that  wliich  is  right.  .  .  .  They 
will  no  longer  submit  to  your  crying  extortions. 
You  lavish,  ia  fine  clothes,  fine  castles,  fine  eating 
and  drinking,  their  hard-won  produce ;  and  what 
l/ou  must  do  first  and  foremost  is,  to  put  a  stop 
to  all  this  vain  luxury  of  yours,  to  close  up  the 
holes  through  which  this  money  runs,  so  that  you 
may  leave  some  little  part  in  the  peasant's 
pocket."  He  then  addressed  the  peasants: — "You 
have  lifted  the  sword,  peasants  ;  Luther  did  not 
lift  a  sword.  If  truth  sufficed  to  overturn  the 
Pope,  have  ye  not  faith  enough  in  truth,  that  it 
will  overturn  the  oppression  of  princes  ?  Struggle 
— I  forbid  you  not ;  but  struggle  by  the  truth.  The 
truth  will  conquer.  If  you  and  the  princes  come 
to  blows,  pr'>sume  not,  on  the  one  side  or  the  oth- 
er, to  call  youroc'ves  Christians.  It  will  be  a 
war  of  pagans — nothmj  else.  Christians  fight 
not  with  swords  or  arquebuses;  but  with  the 
cross,   and  with  patience ;  after  the  example  of 


their  general,  who  handled  not  the  sword,  but 
unresistingly  suffered  himself  to  be  bound  to  the 
cross.  Their  triumph  consists  not  in  domination 
and  power,  but  in  submission  and  humility.  If 
you  abide  by  reason,  by  truth,  I  too  will  join 
you ;  if  you  take  the  sword,  it  is  my  determina- 
tion to  throw  myself  in  all  confidingness  at  the 
feet  of  God,  and  take  part  against  you."  They 
did  take  the  sword,  and  he  took  part  against 
them. 

Great,  indeed,  was  Luther's  confidence  in  the 
power  of  truth.  He  translated  the  Bible,  that 
men  might  be  saved  by  it — the  Koran,  tliat  they 
might  see  how  beggarly  falsehood  was ;  and  to 
the  truth  he  continually  ascribed  the  credit  of  all 
that  was  doing.  "While  I  am  drinking  beer  in 
Wittenberg,  with  Philip  and  the  doctors,  the 
Word  is  saving  the  world,"  he  was  accustomed 
to  say. 

For  those  who  know  Luther  only  through  the 
pages  of  D'Aubigne — who  have  been  accustomed 
to  see  him  in  the  pink  light  of  a  mere  hero — it 
will  be  quite  refreshing  to  go  fairly  through 
Miciielet's  book.  What  a  mere  man  this  over- 
turner  of  the  papacy  was  !  What  pathos,  what 
beauty,  lay  in  that  heart  of  his.  Once  he  looked 
out,  and  saw  a  little  bird  settling  for  the  night  upon 
a  branch  of  a  tree.  "There  thou  settlest,  poor 
bird,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  infinite  dome  of  heaven 
above  thee,  and  the  great  earth  beneath,  and 
goest  to  rest  without  fear."  It  was  a  delightful 
thing  to  spend  an  evening  with  hira.  His  broad, 
beneficent  nature  expanded  into  the  sunniest, 
playfulest  kiudliness.  His  talk  was  full  of  wis- 
dom, of  humor,  of  genuine  insight.  Nature,  art, 
humanity,  philosophy,  theolgy — he  was  at  home 
in  them  all.  Floods  of  light  came  forth  from 
him  in  single  utterances,  given  freely,  without 
effort.  His  mind  vras  open  as  a  child's  for  truth. 
It  is  most  exhilarating  to  be  beside  him  when  he 
first  discovered,  studying  the  Greek  language,  af- 
ter tlie  Reformation  has  begun,  that  meta7ioia  did 
not  nieaa  penances,  but  a  change  of  life. 

You  know,  amongst  other  courageous  things  he 
did,  that  he  cast  ofi"  the  monk's  cowl,  and  married 
a  nun.  Catherine  de  Bora  was  her  name.  She  had 
to  beg  her  bread  from  door  to  door  after  her  hus- 
band's death.  With  his  wife,  he  lived  a  noble 
domestic  life,  and  yet  quite  an  every-day  one. — 
How  playfully  he  bantered  her,  laughed  at  her 
attempts  to  fathom  the  deep  thoughts  of  her  hus- 
band. "  My  Eve,"  he  called  her — "  my  Kit— my 
lord  Kit — my  rib  Kit — that  most  learned  dame, 
Catherine  Luther  de  Bora.  Ah,  Kit,  thou  shouldst 
never  preach  !  If  thou  wouldst  only  say  the  Lord's 
Prayer  always  before  beginning,  thy  lectures 
would  be  shorter."     In  the  history  of  his  married 


EARTHLY   SORROW. 


201 


life,  you  will  not  miss  acts  of  highest  benevolence 
— of  hoi^pitality  atForded  to  those  who  could  not 
return  it — of  just  dealing  with  old  servants.  Lu- 
ther and  she  were  often  very  poor.  The  princes 
took  his  preaching,  but  left  him  to  live  as  he  might. 
He  never  would  take  money  for  his  writings ;  the 
booksellers  got  all  the  profit.  At  one  time,  he 
took  to  turning  wood  for  a  little  money  ;  at  an- 
other, to  gardening.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  hardship,  when  he  had  not  a  coin  for  himself, 
he  would  take  the  silver  drinkingcups  he  had 
got  as  keepsakes  from  the  princes,  and  give  them 
to  poor  students. 

We  have  mentioned  his  home  feelings.  We 
were  much  touched  by  his  exclamation,  when  he 
heard  of  his  fatlier's  death — "7  am  old  Luther 
now."  There  was  insight  in  this  word.  We  re- 
member, too,  a  beautiful  letter  he  wrote  to  Lis 
little  boy,  namesake  of  his  father,  about  a  lovely 
and  smiling  garden — the  garden  of  celestial  life 
— full  of  children,  dressed  in  robes  of  gold,  who 


played  under  the  trees  with  beautiful  apples 
pears,  cherries,  nuts,  and  prunes  ;  and  had  drums 
and  fifes,  and  music  of  all  sorts.  And  little  Hans 
would  be  admitted  to  this  garden,  if  he  be  a  good 
boy.  So  simple — so  like  a  child,  could  the  man 
who  hurled  down  popes,  whose  words  are  still 
"  half-battles,"  write  on  the  proper  opportunity. 

The  time  came  when  he  was  to  write  no  more. 
He  was  absent  from  his  Catherine,  at  Eisleben. 
attending  a  Protestant  Synod.  It  was  the  17th 
February,  1546.  He  felt  that  he  was  dying. 
"  Pray  brethren  ;  oh  I  pray  for  the  spread  of  the 
Gospel,"  he  said  to  his  fellow-laborers.  Then  he 
took  a  turn  or  two  in  the  room,  and  lay  down. — 
"  Friends,  I  am  dying.  Into  thy  hands,  O  Lord, 
I  commit  my  spirit."  "  Reverend  father,"  said 
Dr.  Jonas,  "  do  you  die  firm  in  the  faith  you  have 
taught  V  Luther  opened  his  eyes,  which  were 
half  closed,  looked  fixedly  at  Jonas,  and  replied, 
firmly  and  distinctly,  "Yes."  That  was  the  last 
word  he  uttered;  then,  his  great  spirit  went  home' 


EARTHLY    SORROW 


"Wht  should  man,  with  bitter  grieving, 
Mourn  the  hopes  his  heart  deceiving, 
Which,  though  false,  array'd  in  beauty, 
Rise  in  youth  before  his  sight? 
These  are  but  the  desert-vision 
Tempting  to  a  wTong  decision, 
Leading  from  the  path  of  duty, 
But  to  fail  when  comes  the  night. 

Not  for  wanton  ease  and  pleasure, 
Life  unlocks  its  secret  treasure ; 
Not  to  those  who  idly  seeking. 
Take  its  cross  but  miss  its  end  ; 
Life  is  meant  for  cairn  endurance, 
Lighten'd  by  the  blest  assurance 
That  a  glorious  dawn  is  breaking 
For  the  hearts  no  sin  can  bend. 


Who  but  dreams  of  life,  unknowing, 
111  or  pain,  from  nature  flowing, 
To  its  purpose  lives  a  stranger, 
Only  worse  to  be  deceived  : 
While  the  man  who  grief  awaiteth 
Sorrow  as  a  furnace  rateth, 

Where  the  soul  is  freed  from  danger. 
Though  of  early  hopes  bereaved. 

Earth  is  beautiful :  but  yonder, 
Where  our  holier  musings  wander, 
Lies  a  country  far  more  glorious. 
Heirdom  for  the  sons  of  care  ; — 
Griefs  but  move  us  to  obtain  it ; 
Through  His  might  who  died  to  gain  it ; 
Over  death  itself  victorious. 
Bliss  eternal  we  may  share. 


A  WISH. 


Oh,  would  I  were  a  flower  bright, 
To  charm  and  ravish  mortal  sight, 

And  shed  perfume  around  ! 
Hadiant  in  the  sunbeam's  light, 
Bathed  in  dew  on  starry  night, 

With  gorgeous  lustre  crowned. 

Smiling  on  the  hazy  mom, 
The  glorious  glowing  golden  dawn 
Of  life  and  glistening  light, 


Smiling  'neath  the  moon's  pure  beuns, 
Drinking  deep  its  silvery  streams, 
With  all  its  charms  bedight. 

The  tempest  hour  being  come, 
Unblessed  by  either  moon  or  sun, 

To  hang  my  drooping  head  j 
And  when  the  darkness  took  to  flight 
To  hail  once  more  the  ambient  light, 

And  dying  odor  shed. 


'SPEAK   TENDERLY    TO    THE    ERRING 


>  5 


BY       REV.      CHAS.       HOOVER, 


The  following  history  embraces  facts  which 
are  but  too  common,  illustrativo  of  the  perils  of 
young  men,  and  of  the  little  interest  that  is  felt 
for  their  souls  even  by  nearest  friends,  and  by 
those  whose  special  office  it  should  be  to  seeii 
and  save  the  lost,  and  be  a  guide  and  a  helper  to 
the  wanderer.  "With  the  hope  that  it  may  prove 
a  profitable  chapter,  I  shall  here  introduce  the 
leading  facts  of  his  history  as  he  communicated 
it  to  me. 

Henry  H ,  the  young  man  I  am  speaking 

of,  was  the  son  of  respectable  parents,  of  very 
moderate  pecuniary  means,  but  amiable  and  in- 
telligent, and  much  esteemed  in  their  neighbor- 
hood for  their  various  excellent  qualities.     Our 
family  and  the  H's,  were  on  very  friendly  terms, 
and  long  after  misfortune  had   broken  up   and 
scattered  them,  they  were  remembered  by    us 
with   more   than  ordinary  interest.     Of  all  our 
child  acquaintances,  Henry  was  one  of  the  most 
peculiarly  interesting.     Beautiful  in  person  and 
afifectionate  in  disposition,  he  was  also  remarka- 
bly thoughtful,  serious,   and   inquiring,  so   that 
when  he  was  but  about  six  years  old,  every  one 
predicted   that    he    would    one   day    become   a 
preacher  and  a  great  man.     Just  at  this  time, 
sudden   calamity  came  with   desolating  power 
upon  Henry's  family.     His  father  in  tlie  prime 
of  manhood   was   drowned.     A   sudden    squall 
overturned  a  sail-boat  in  which  he  was  one  of  a 
party  of  pleasure,  and  he,  with  several  others 
perished.     This  sad  event  was  soon  followed  by 
the  scattering  of  the  family.     Henry  was  taken 
in  charge  by  a  wealthy  old  quaker  gentleman 
fanner  in  the  vicinity  of  the  city,  with  whom  he 
remained  till  he  was  twelve  or  thirteen  years 
old,  and  where  his  appetite  for  reading  and  in- 
struction were  abundantly  indulged.     He  made 
surprising  attainments  for  one  of  his  years  and 
opportunities.     Finding  in  the  books  of  science 
which  fell  into  his  hands,  the  frequent  occurrence 
of  Latin  terms,  he  applied  himself  of  his  own  ac- 
cord to  the  acquirement  of  that  language ;  and 
afterwards,  in  like  manner,  undertook  the  Greek, 
and  before  he  was  fourteen,  and  without  a  word 
of  instruction,  he  readily  mastered  Virgil  in  the 


former,  and  the  New  Testament  in  the  latter  lan- 
guage, and  had  also  formed  a  considerable  ac- 
quaintance with  several  modern  tongues.  This, 
however,  was  a  very  small  part  of  his  knowledge. 
His  reading  was  immense.  He  devoured  every 
thing  he  could  lay  liands  on  in  the  shape  of  a 
book.  There  was  to  be  sure  little  or  nothing  of 
system  in  his  studies,  for  he  read  without 
sruidance  whatever  came  to  hand,  and  his  ac- 
quirements  were  a  vast  chaos  of  facts  without 
form  and  void,  and  darkness  brooded  over  ail- 
But  his  memory  was  faithful  and  seemed  never 
to  relinquish  a  fact  which  it  had  once  grasped. 
About  this  time  he  read  those  two  pernicious 
books,  Paine's  Age  of  Reason  and  Volney's 
Ruins,  but  by  a  singular  Providence,  Bishop 
Berkley's  Minute  Philosopher,  one  of  the  ablest 
answers  to  infidelity  ever  written,  though  some- 
what abstruse,  fell  into  his  hands,  and  entirely 
satisfied  his  mind  as  to  the  speculative  truth  of 
Christianity. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  began 
to  feel  his  personal  need  of  religion.  His  resi- 
dence had  been  removed  to  the  city,  and  he  began 
to  be  interested  in  the  faithful  preaching  of  the 
gospel,  a  thing  as  new  and  as  strange  to  his  ears 
as  if  he  had  lived  all  his  life  in  a  heathen  land. 
Does  Dr.  Skinner,  now  of  the  Mercer  street 
Church,  New  York,  remember  the  meetings  that 
used  to  be  held  in  Mr.  Patterson's  Church,  in 
Philadelphia,  and  in  the  school-house  in  the 
rear,  in  which  he  and  Dr.  Cox,  now  of  Brooklyn, 
both  then  young  men,  with  Mr.  Burch  and  the 
now  glorified  Patterson  participated?  Among 
the  deeply  anxious  souls  that  then  and  there 
cried  out,  "  what  must  we  do  to  be  saved?"  was 
this  young  man  ;  and  there,  after  many  days  of 
anguish  bordering  on  despair, he  found  that  peace 
which  the  world  cannot  give.  After  a  suitable 
time  he  was  received  into  one  of  the  city 
churches,  and  commenced  his  public  profession 
of  discipleship  with  the  strongest  desire  and  pur- 
pose to  be  wholly  devoted  to  the  Lord.  For  two 
or  three  years  his  religious  ardor  appeared  not  in 
the  least  to  abate.  His  enjoyment  in  private  re- 
ligious duties  was  great.     His  peace  flowed  like 


"SPEAK   TENDERLY   TO   THE   ERRING, 


203 


a  river.  Every  day  was  a  Sabbath,  and  every 
Sabbath  a  foretaste  of  heaven.  His  thirst  for 
knowledge  meantime  was  as  great  as  ever,  but 
better  directed.  With  an  increasing  love  for  the 
Scriptures,  his  attention  was  directed  with  new 
interest  to  the  languages  in  which  its  revelations 
were  originally  given.  The  Greek  Testament 
became  his  pocket  companion,  and  was  studied 
daily.  He  now  studied  the  Hebrew,  and  enjoying 
the  advantage  of  a  competent  instructor,  made 
rapid  progress.  The  advice  of  friends,  and  his 
own  views  of  duty  concurred  in  regarding  the 
ministry  of  reconciliation  as  the  calling  for  which 
Providence  designed  him.  And  although  he  was 
not  now  his  own  master,  having  become  an  ap- 
prentice some  time  before,  and  although  the  pros- 
pect of  realizing  his  new  purpose  was  remote,  he 
marked  out  for  himself  a  plan  of  study,  and  de- 
voted to  its  prosecution  all  the  time  he  could 
call  his  own,  abstracting  many  an  hour  from  the 
time  usually  allotted  to  sleep. 

Thus,  all  things  promised  well.     But  the  fiery 
trial  of  the  young  Christian  was  at  hand.     Two 
or  three  of  the  youths  in  the  same  office  to  which 
he  belonged,  invited  him  one   pleasant  day,  to 
join  them  in  a  sailing  excursion.     He  accepted 
and  went,  not  dreaming  for  a  moment  that  any 
harm  could  arise  from  it,  or  that  it  would  be  lia- 
ble   to   miscoustruction.     The    time   was  spent 
pleasantly,  jovially,  but  yet  innocently,  not  as  a 
religious  exercise  certainly,   but  as  a   perfectly 
harmless  recreation.     In  a  day  or  two,  however, 
Henry  was  taken  to  task  by  one  of  his  fellow 
church-members,  a  few  years  older  than  himself, 
and  charged  in  a  very  severe   and  harsh  manner 
with  having  disgraced  religion   and  violated  his 
vows,  by  going  with  a  pleasure  party  of  ungodly 
young    men.     Henry's    constitutional   infirmity 
was  extreme  sensitiveness,  and  these  reproaches, 
the  first  he  had  ever  heard,  withered  his   very 
soul.     He  was  conscious  of  innocence,  but  the 
thought  of  being  singled  out  and  pointed  at  as 
having   di.sgraced   religion,  by   those    too,  with 
whom  he  had  walked  to  the  house  of  God  and 
the   prayer-meeting,   sunk  deep  into  his  heart. 
Very  soon  the  story  grew  like  that  of  the  black 
crows,  and  it  was  now  said  that  Henry  and  his 
companions  in  the  sailing  party  had  been  drink- 
ing rather  freely.     The  story  was  utterly   false, 
but  it  answered  the  purpose  for  which  Satan  in- 
vented it.     It  crushed  Henry's  young  affections, 
destroyed  his  confidence  in  those  fellow  profes- 
sors whom  he  had  formerly  regarded  as  exam- 
ples, and  alienated  him  from  the  prayer-meeting, 
and  after  a  time  from  the  church  where  he  had 
recorded  his  vows.     His  young,  sensitive,  afifec- 


tionate  nature  had  received  a  blow  from  which 
he  could  not  recover.  He  shrank  from  inter- 
course with  those  who  had  inflicted  it ;  shut  him- 
self up  in  his  closet,  and  nursed  his  grief  in  soli- 
tude and  silence. 

Henry's   employer  was  a  Presbyterian  elder, 
and  a  man  of  the  world;  he  owned  a  pew  in  the 
church,  and  a  box  in  the  theatre.   Henry  was  offer- 
ed   the   use  of  the  family  ticket  whenever  he 
should  feel  inclined  to  attend,  and  occasionally,  to 
relieve  the  tedium  of  his  lonely  and  uncared  for 
life,  he  accepted  the  offer,  and  in  process  of  time, 
became  a  pretty  regular  attendant  upon  the  dra- 
ma, though  I  believe  he  was  addicted  to  none  of 
the  vices  which  are  usually  connected  with  thea- 
tre-going young  men.     With  him  it  was  a  mere 
literary  recreation  ;  he  saw  a  play  as  he  read  a 
poem,  and  all  his  habits  in  other  respects  were 
moral  in   the   usual   sense  of  that  word.     His 
church,  however,  was  now  for  several  years  entirely 
neglected,  and  his  Sabbaths  were  spent  at  home. 
And  now,  note  one  fact :  Henry,  under  the  sup- 
position that  he  had  committed  a  dreadful  sin  by 
spending  a  few  leisure  hours  in  sailing  with  two 
or  three  of  his  office-mates,  who  were  not  church 
members,  was  virtually  driven  from  Christian  so- 
ciety by  the  harshness  of  a  blind  zeal ;  and  after 
he  had  withdrawn,  almost  heart-broken,  and  shut 
himself  up  to  mourn   alone,  this  mere  child  in 
years,  this  infant  in  religion,  this  unfriended  or- 
phan boy,  is  then  left  to  stray  at  his  will,  and 
there  is  none   to  follow  him,  and  in  the  loving 
spirit  of  the  gospel,  endeavor  to  heal  his  wounds, 
real  or  imaginary, and  encourage  him  in  the  path 
of  duty.     One  kind  word  would  have  saved  that 
boy.     But  for  years  he  lived  as  I  have  described, 
and  no  officer  or   member   of  the   church   upon 
whose   books  his  name  still  stood,  inquired  after 
him  or  cared  for  his  soul.     Even  those  who  were 
so  dreadfully  shocked  at  the  dishonor  brought 
upon  religion  by  his  sailing  excursion,  sremed  to 
forget  there  was  such  a  person  in  the  world.    Ex- 
posed to  all  the  temptations  of  great  city,  with 
none  to  guide  him,  no  father  to  counsel  him,  no 
mother  to  pray  for  him,  no  sister  to  win  him  to 
virtue's  side,  no  church  to  watch  over  his  way- 
ward  footsteps,   what  wonder  if  he   should  be 
wicked  forever.         *         *         *         * 

Several  years  after  tliese  things,  my  father 
was  called  upon  one  morning  by  a  stranger,  who 
informed  him  that  a  young  man  was  lying  at  a 
low  miserable  groggery  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
town,  in  a  deplorable  state,  brought  on  by  exces- 
sive drinking;  that  his  situation  required  immedi- 
ate attention ;  and  that  he  had  been  heard  to  name 
my  father   as   a   former  friend    of  his   family. 


204 


"SPEAK  TENDERLY  TO  THE  ERRING 


Without  being  able  to  imagine  who  the  unfortu- 
nate outcast  and  wanderer  might  be,  my  father 
immediately  set  forth  to  see  him,  taking  me  along 
with  him.  We  proceeded  according  U,  the  di- 
rection of  the  stranger,  .and  soon  reached  the  dis- 
mal rum-hole  that  had  been  described  to  us. 
Making  known  our  errand,  we  were  shown  into 
a  back  room,  dark  almost  as  night,  filthy  as  a 
sty,  with  several  beds  in  it,  on  one  of  which, 
covered  with  a  horse  blanket,  lay  the  object  of 
our  visit.  My  father  spoke  in  a  kind  tone,  some 
words  of  inquiry  to  the  unhappy  man,  which 
were  answered  only  by  sobs,  convulsive  sobs,  that 
seemed  to  shake  the  room,  and  we  awaited  in 
silence  the  subsidence  of  his  agony.  At  length, 
turning  to  my  father  and  grasping  his  hand,  we 
beheld  the  haggard  featuresof  Henry  H.  My  fa- 
ther wept  like  a  little  child.  Enough  was  known 
of  Henry's  situation  to  decide  our  course.  The 
poor  fellow  had  to  be  clothed  from  head  to  foot 
before  he  was  fit  to  be  removed  ;  after  which,  he 
was  taken  to  our  house  and  ministered  to  as  his 
situation  required,  after  a  long  coui-se  of  inebri- 
ation. 

We  soon  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  him  him- 
self again.  He  was  encouraged  to  believe  that 
all  was  not  lost ;  that  divine  grace  would  be 
sufiicient  for  him  if  he  forsook  his  evil  way,  and 
that  there  were  friends  who  felt  for  him  and  were 
ready  to  second  his  endeavors.  The  thought 
that  any  one  cared  for  him,  and  that  his  return 
to  the  path  of  duty  would  cause  any  one  to  rejoice- 
afiected  him  exceedingly.  The  rock  on  which 
he  had  split,  indeed,  as  the  foregoing  narrative 
shows,  was  the  impression  produced  by  injudicious 
treatment,  that  no  one  loved  him  or  cared  for 
him.  On  this  subject,  with  his  sensitive  spirit, 
he  had  become  a  monomaniac;  one  step  more 
made  him  a  misanthrope,  and  he  swung  from  his 
moorings  in  the  social  system,  as  multitudes  had 
done  before  him.  But  now  his  disappointed  heart 
was  invited  to  try  again,  to  come  back  into  the 
magic  circle  of  sympathy  and  love,  and  Ciiristian 
communion,  and  with  an  expanding  heart  he  came. 
We  were  daily  and  glad-hearted  witnesses  of  the 
gracious  change  in  his  feelings,  and  of  the  modest, 
childlike,  yet  determined  spirit  with  which  he  re- 
commenced the  Christian  course.  0  how  his  bosom 
swelled  with  affectionate  gratitude  for  the  small- 
est token  of  sympathy  or  solicitude  for  his  well- 
being.  His  sense  of  the  mercy  of  God  in  reclaim- 
ing and  forgiving  him  was  at  times  overwhelming ; 


I  have  seen  him  sit  often  for  a  long  time,  his  eyes 
closed,  a  smile  of  peace  and  joy  on  his  counte 
nance,  while  tears  would  chase  each  other  down 
his  cheek,  tears  of  mingled  penitence  and  joy,  and 
he  was  not  conscious  enough  of  their  presence  to 
wipe  them  away.  His  personal  experience  of 
the  harsh  and  uncharitable  judgments  of  men, 
had  a  powerful  effect  in  rendering  him  slow  to 
utter  or  believe  evil  reports  ;  and  he  was  always 
ready  to  espouse  the  side  of  the  accused,  main- 
taining it  as  a  practical  duty  as  well  as  a  legal 
maxim,  to  hold  accused  persons  innocent  until 
proved  to  be  guilty.  His  whole  soul  interested 
itself  in  the  erring  and  the  wretched,  and  he 
would  say  tiiat  he  desired  no  higher  honor  than 
to  be  a  gospel  missionary  in  hospitals  and  pri- 
sons. 

Circumstances  rendering  it  as  convenient  as  it 
was  agreeable,  Henry  i-emained  along  time  a  mem- 
ber of  our  family.  I  have  incorporated  with  these 
simple  annals  his  not  uncommon  history,  because 
it  interested  ray  own  heart,  and  because  it  may 
be  useful  in  cautioning  others  against  rude  and 
unfeeling  censoriousness  which  repelled  Henry 
from  the  church  to  the  world,  and  well  nigh 
wrecked  his  soul  forever  ;  and  if  the  eye  of  some 
backslider,  far  gone  in  the  ways  of  sin,  should 
light  upon  these  pages,  let  him  pause  and  return, 
and  bowing  with  a  broken  heart  at  the  cross  of 
Calvary,  find  peace  to-his  guilty  and  troubled 
soul.  Church  members  and  church  officers  too, 
may  learn  a  lesson  from  this  story.  Often,  while 
great  zeal  is  manifested  to  get  people  into  church, 
very  little  concern  is  felt  for  their  subsequent 
course.  A  great  deal  of  attention  is  shown  to  a 
young  man  when  he  first  becomes  concerned 
about  his  soul.  The  minister,  the  elders,  the 
members  of  the  church  notice  him,  converse  with 
him,  give  him  religious  advice,  and  lead  him  to  re- 
ligious meetings,  till  he  joins  the  church,  and 
then  nobody  has  anything  to  say  to  him.  If  he 
conduct  himself  properly,  very  well ;  but  it  will 
not  be  owing  to  any  particular  efforts  made  by 
others  for  his  advancement  in  the  spiritual  life.  If 
he  goes  astray,  he  will  hear  of  it,  not  from  some 
Christian  brother  calling  on  him  in  a  kind  and 
loving  spirit  to  confer  with  him  alone,  but  in 
whisperings,  and  backbitings,  and  harsh  censures. 
These  are  hard  sayings,  but  alas,  too  true.  Would 
that  the  time  miglit  speedily  come  when  the 
church  shall  be  purged  from  its  unbrotherly  spirit, 
and  be  baptized  anew  with  the  baptizm  of  love ! 


THE    FAMILY    IN    HEAVEN. 


3T      MISS     M.      C 


TROWBRIDGK  . 


Home  and  its  joys,  is  a  theme  old — yet  ever 
new,  fruitful,  inexhaustible;  a  green  spot  in  the 
world's  waste  wilderness,  an  oasis  in  the  desert. 
The  weary  traveler  may  have  looked  upon  it 
times  without  number,  yet  has  each  view  re- 
freshed, gladdened,  invigorated  his  spirit.  Still 
it  is  a  mournful  truth  that  the  roses  plucked 
from  beueath  tlic  shelter  of  tiie  domestic  roof,  are 
not  thoriiless.  If  it  be  granted  that  every  otlier 
element  of  perfection  is  sometimes  found  here,  it 
must  be  admitted  that  one  is  wanting.  The  joys 
of  home  may  be  sweet,  may  be  precious,  but 
they  are  not  permanent. 

Let  the  history  of  as  united,  affectionate,  and 
devoted  a  family  as  ever  gathered  around  the 
household  hearth,  be  written  out,  and  the  last 
chapter,  if  no  otlier,  will  sadden  the  heart  and 
moisten  the  eye,  as  it  records  sad  partings,  and 
points  to  the  fiimdy  vault,  where  those  so  united 
in  life  together,  lie  in  the  cold  embrace  of  death; 
unless,  indeed,  their  final  resting  place  is  more 
justly  described  in  these  familiar  lines  of  the 
household  poet : 

"  They  grew  in  beauty  side  by  side, 
They  filled  one  house  with  glee, 
Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea." 

But  is  it  true  that  all  the  love  and  confidence, 
the  mutual  forbearance,  the  disinterestedness ;  all 
the  pure  and  holy  affections  quickened  into  being 
by  the  existence  of  these  family  ties,  are  to  be 
entombed  in  the  family  vault  ?  Is  there  never 
to  be  a  family  re-gathering,  where  these  budding 
affections  shall  find  a  congenial  atmosphere,  in 
which  they  may  expand  and  develop  in  beauty 
and  loveliness,  of  which  earth's  holiest  affections 
are  but  a  type,  a  shadow  ? 

Many  a  trusting  heart,  looking  within  the  vail, 
■will  answer,  "  If  these  all  died  in  faith,  they  shall 
meet  again  to  part  no  more  !"  True !  but  not  again 
as  a  family.  Of  the  many  mansions  of  the  blest, 
we  have  no  warrant  to  suppose  that  one  will  be 
opened  for  their  reception  as  a  family,  when  the 
family  circle  may  again  be  formed,  and  the 
family  altar  consecrated. 


Let  us  cast  no  shadow  upon  the  hope  of  a 
joyous  re-union  which  now  sustains  the  spirit  of 
many  a  mourner  for  departed  ones.  Let  such 
exclaim  with  Martha,  "  I  know  that  he  shall  rise 
again  in  the  resurrection  at  the  last  day ;"  or  with 
the  bereaved  king  of  Israel,  "  I  shall  go  to  him 
but  he  shall  not  return  to  me."  We  cannot  doubt 
but  there  will  be  overflowing  joy  in  the  mutual 
recognitions  and  retrospections  of  members  of 
the  same  household  in  a  future  state  of  being. 
But  however  great  the  joy  of  such  re-unions,  or 
whatever  their  nature,  we  know  that  the  ties  of 
family,  as  existing  on  earth,  will  not  be  perpetu- 
ated beyond  the  grave  ;  for  we  are  expressly 
assured  that  there  "  they  neither  marry  nor  are 
given  in  marriage,  but  are  as  the  angels  of  God." 
Will  then  the  family  relation  find  no  counterpart 
in  forms  of  existence  beyond  the  grave  ?  Has 
the  nursery  of  filial  and  fraternal  affections  here 
no  relation  to,  no  direct  bearing  upon,  the  duties, 
the  relations,  the  affiliations  of  another  state  of 
existence. 

Suppose  the  family  circle  enlarged  till  it  em- 
braced the  globe,  every  fellow  being  giving  you  a 
brother's  welcome  to  the  inner  temple  of  his 
hearts  purest  affections,  and  warmest  sympathies; 
that  all  were  bound  to  you  by  ties  as  strong,  as 
sacred,  as  fraternal  as  those  which  unite  the 
hearts  of  the  members  of  an  affectionate  house- 
hold; that  by  every  one  you  were  greeted  with 
the  warm  heart,  and  beaming  eye  of  devoted  af- 
fection, the  present  narrow  stream  of  fraternal 
love,  swelled  to  a  broad  ocean  by  the  contribu- 
tions of  countless  numbers  of  loving  hearts.  Or 
suppose  yon  were  suddenly  introduced  to  such  a 
scene  and  assured  that  the  family  relations  you 
had  hitherto  sustained,  were  designed  to  prepare 
you  to  particijjate  in  its  joys. 

But  does  not  the  Divine  Record  lead  us  to  be- 
lieve that  the  affections  which  are  first  drawn  out 
around  the  houi^ehold  hearth,  are  to  be  transferred 
to  another  family  circle,  Uie  communions,  the  fe- 
licity, the  joy  of  which  shall  be,  in  measure,  pro- 
portionable to  the  augmented  numbers  comprising 
the  fimily  group,  and  the  strength,  the  perma- 


206 


REJOICE   IN   THE   LORD. 


nence,  the  perfection  of  the  ties  -which  bind  them 
to  each  other  ?  Does  it  not  lead  us  to  believe  that 
the  discipline  of  the  family  on  earth  is  beneficent- 
ly designed  to  prepare  its  members  for  member- 
ship in  a  family  embracing  all,  and  infinitely 
more  than  has  here  been  suggested  ?  Does  not 
each  sundering  of  family  ties  here  impressively 
remind  us  of  their  frailty,  that  they  are  but  types 
and  shadows  of  a  glorious  substance,  a  heavenly 
reality  ? 

How  impressive  are  those  portions  of  Divine 
Truth  which  are  designed  to  open  our  hearts  to 
the  conception  of  this  family  relation,  to  its  real- 
ity even  on  earth,  and  to  the  filial  and  fraternal 
duties  involved  in  it-  How  opposed  to  pride,  to 
misanthropy,  to  selfishness,  such  declarations  as 
these,  "For  he  that  loveth  not  his  brother,  whom 
he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God,  whom  he  hath 
not  seen?  Every  one  that  loveth  is  born  of  God, 
and  kuoweth  God. 

When  the  only  begotten  Son,  which  is  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Father,  came  down  to  impart  to 
fallen  man  that  knowledge  of  the  true  God,  which 
is  eternal  life,  in  what  language  did  he  seek  to 
convey  to  his  hearers  a  true  conception  of  their 
relations  to  this  infinite  Being?  Was  he  sent  to 
speak  of  Him  as  the  Almighty  God,  the  Mighty 


One  of  Israel,  the  I  am  That  I  am?  Listen  to 
the  appellation,  most  frequently,  chosen  by  the 
Divine  Teacher.  "  Your  Father  who  is  in  Heaven ; 
as  if  his  heart  of  infinite  benevolence  would  fain 
have  gathered  the  whole  human  family,  and  placed 
them  in  the  arms  of  their  One  common  Parent, 
binding  them  to  him,  and  to  each  other,  by  a  tie 
never  to  be  sundered  so  long  as  the  Everlasting 
Father  lived  to  protect,  sustain,  and  bless,  the 
children  of  his  love. 

Were  we  habitually  to  regard  our  homes  as 
the  nurseries  in  which  our  spirits  were  being  dis- 
ciplined for  member' ^ip  in  the  one  family  of  the 
Redeemed,  would  not  the  light  of  a  holier  home 
be  shed  upon  them,  increasing  every  joy  and  al- 
leviating every  sorrow  ?  Were  there  more  of  the 
filial  in  our  communion  with  our  Heavenly  Fa- 
ther, and  more  of  the  fraternal  in  our  intercourse 
with  our  Christian  brethren — more  of  the  spirit 
of  that  aged  disciple,  who  having  survived  all  her 
kindred,  could  still  say  "I  have  brothers  and  sis- 
ters more  than  I  can  number ;  for  every  child  of 
God  is  one  of  them  " — should  we  not  more  nearly 
resemble  Him,  who  when  on  earth  declared, 
"  Whosoever  shall  do  the  will  of  my  Father  who 
is  in  Heaven,  the  same  is  my  brother,  and  Sister, 
and  mother." 


"REJOICE   IN  THE    LORD." 


B  T      MISS      L 


M  . 


SEYMOUR. 


Dost  say  thou  art  happy  since  fortune  hath  smiled, 
And  dressed  thee  in  robes  of  her  costliest  state, — 

Thy  rank  hath  set  high,  and  thy  coffers  hath  piled, 
Thus  writing  thy  name  'mong  the  rich  and  the  great  ? 

Dost  say  thou  art  happy  since  genius  is  thine, 

To  weave  round  thy  being  a  bright  magic  spell, — 

And  show  all  above  thee  a  lovelier  sign 

Than  pencil  can  paint,  or  thy  tongue  ever  tell  I 

Dost  say  thou  art  happy,  since  loved  ones  are  near. 
To  wake  in  thy  bosom  affection's  sweet  thrill, — 

And  give  thee  responsive  in  smile  and  in  tear. 

Affection  whose  life-pulse  e'en  death  cannot  still  ? 

Nay,  what  are  the  favors  that  fortune  may  fling. 
If  He  with  those  favors  refuseth  to  bless  I 

And  is  not  thy  genius  a  wearisome  thing. 
And  what  are  the  sweets  of  the  loving  caress  I 


Dost  say  thou  art  happy  when  deep  from  thine  heart, 
Upspringeth  a  yearning  the  world  cannot  meet? 

Which  only  may  rest  in  the  holier  part 

That  Mary  once  chose  as  she  sat  at  his  feet  ? 

Dost  say  thou  art  happy  before  thou  hast  found 
The  peace  that  the  Saviour  ha-s  promised  to  give  ? 

The  peace  which  like  rivers  will  flow  all  around. 
Will  comfort  and  gladden  so  long  as  thou  live  ? 

Dost  say  thou  art  happy,  when  low  in  the  grive, 

Thy   future  seems  shrouded  in  darkness  and  gloom  ? 

Gloom  'naught  can  dispel  or  illuminate,  save 
That  Light  which  triumphant  first  rose  from  the  tomb. 

Oh  look  to  thy  Saviour,  where  happiness  is. 
In  measure  exceeding  all  mortal  e'er  dreamed  ! 

Thus  thou  shalt  wax  stronger  and  brighter  in  bliss, 
Till  thine  are  the  transports  which  fill  the  redeemed  I 


STEPHEN    II.    TYNG,    D.    P. 


THE    SEVEN   WONDEHS   OF   THE   WORLD 


All  men  have  heard  of  the  Seven  Wonders  of 
the  "World,  of  ancient  times.  The  following  se- 
rial account  of  them  is  taken  from  a  respectable 
and  learned  work  of  the  <i;ite  of  the  reign  of 
James  I.  of  Oreat  Britain.  For  the  positive  truth 
of  all  that  is  here  told  about  the  seven  wonders, 
we  must  decline  being  responsible;  for  a  change 
in  the  spelling  only  are  we  answerable,  believing 
tkat  no  good  end  would  be  gained  by  retaining 
it  in  its  now  obsolete  form.  It  will  be  observed 
that  our  old  author  quotes  several  of  the  best 
writers  of  Greece  and  Rome  in  support  of  his 
statements;  and  even  in  the  present  less  credu- 
lous time,  we  could  scarcely  find  more  trust-wor- 
thy vouchers.  Where  the  wonders  yet  exist,  how- 
ever, as  in  the  case  of  the  Pyramids,  the  matter 
takes  a  different  shape.  If  there  ever  was  a  py- 
ramid that  covered  "eight  days"  journey  of 
ground,  it  has  not  lasted  to  our  day,  assuredly. 

Such  as  have  read  ancient  historians,  orators, 
and  poets,  do  find,  that  (hey  make  mention  in 
many  of  their  books,  of  seven  marvels  or  wonders 
of  the  world,  and  that  they  were  in  divers  places. 
All  they  that  have  written  do  consent  to  six,  but 
concerning  the  seventh  there  are  variable  opin- 
ions, and  likewise  a  great  difference  in  placing 
one  before  another.  Notwithstanding,  I  purpose 
to  speak  first  of  the  Walls  of  Babylon,  which  are 
ranked  in  the  number  of  these  wonders,  and  upon 
good  reason,  because  the  greatness  of  the  place, 
as  also  the  situation  thereof,  seemeth  incredible. 

Concerning  those  walls,  according  to  the  sound- 
est opinions,  namely,  Justine,  and  also  as  Trogus 
Pompeius  saith,  they  were  founded  by  the  famous 
Queen  Semiramis,  mother  to  Niuus.  Diodorus 
Siculus,  Ammianus  Marcellinus,  and  Paulus  Oro- 
sius  do  maintain  the  same,  with  the  greater  part 
of  our  Gentile  authors.  Nevertheless,  St.  Augus- 
tine, and  Josephus  in  his  "Antiquities,"  say,  that 
they  were  builded  by  Ninirod,  assisted  by  the 
proud  giants  then  living.  But  be  it,  that  the 
foundation  or  reparation  of  them  was  done  by 
Semiramis,  it  is  sufficient  that  they  were  greatly 
ennobled  by  her. 

The  situation  of  the  city  was  with  a  plain  on 
the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  ran  the  river  of 
Euphrates.  The  model  and  figure  of  this  city 
was  in  a  quadrangle,  and  the  walls  wonderfully 
high,  as  also  wrought  with  marvellous  cunning. 
The  matter  was  of  stone,  joined  with  lime  and 


cement,  growing  in  the  mines  of  that  country, 
but  especially  in  the  great  lake  of  Judea,  where 
some  time  stood  Sodom  and  Gom^rrha,  named 
Asphaltida,  which  yieldeth  such  a  kind  of  slime 
or  mud,  as  bindeth  like  pitch  or  glue,  the  very 
strongest  that  is  to  be  found.  Historians  do  dis- 
agree about  the  height  and  largeness  of  the  cir- 
cuit, which  might  happen  through  the  diversity 
of  the  measures  they  then  used.  Pliny  saith, 
that  the  circuit  of  those  walls  was  threescore 
thousand  paces  ;  so  that  one  of  the  squares  was 
fifteen  thousand.  He  also  saith,  that  they  were 
two  hundred  feet  in  height,  which  foot  exceeded 
by  three  fingers'-breadth  the  measure  of  the 
Roman  foot ;  and  the  thickness  was  fifty  feet  of 
the  same  measure,  which  was  indeed  a  matter 
very  admirable. 

Diodorus  Siculus  said,  that  the  walls  contained 
in  all  round  about  360  stadii,  and  that  they  were 
so  broad  and  wide,  as  six  chariots  might  easily 
be  trained  in  front  together,  without  offending 
one  another.  The  bridges,  the  mounts,  the  tow- 
ers, and  the  gardens,  Semiramis  caused  to  be 
made,  which  were  works  of  great  astonishment. 
It  is  credibly  set  down  in  records,  that  she  kept 
daily  at  this  work  three  hundred  thousand  men, 
out  of  all  the  kingdoms  which  were  subject  to 
her.  Quintus  Curtius  addeth  thereto  eight  stadii 
more  in  length,  and  said  that  tbey  were  an  hun- 
dred cubits  liigh  ;  but  Paulus  Orosius  saith,  that 
they  were  480  stadii  in  length,  which  amount 
(taking  sixscore  and  five  paces  in  every  stadium) 
to  threescore  thousand  paces,  as  Pliny  said. 
Strabo  said  and  aflSrmeth,  that  they  contained 
three  hundred  eighty  five  stadii,  and  also  that 
they  were  so  broad,  as  the  former  named  chariots 
might  in  that  manner  go  on  them,  and  yet  not 
hurt  or  hinder  one  another  in  their  passing  along 
together. 

Moreover,  authors  do  report  marvellous  things 
of  gardens  made  upon  the  arches  and  towers, 
wherein  grew  trees  of  unmeasurable  height. 
Jolius  Solinus  confirms  the  same  with  Pliny. 
Some  among  the  authors  do  avouch,  that  the 
walls  without  were  engirt  with  ditches,  full  of 
water,  as  large  and  deep  as  an  indifferent  wide 
river.  In  this  city  there  was  a  hundred  gates  of 
metal,  very  admirable  And  for  conclusion,  all 
that  is  written  of  the  greatness  and  height  of  tho 
walls,  may  well  be  credited,  because,  in  truth, 


208 


THE   SEVEN    WONDERS    OF   THE    WORLD. 


this  city  was  the  proudest  in  tlie  whole  world, 
and  long  time  held  the  universal  monarchy, 
■which  is  an  especial  argument  of  her  greatness. 
And  the  same  is  also  described  by  Aristotle,  when 
he  saith,  that  being  once  taken  with  enemies, 
they  that  dwelt  at  one  end  or  side  of  the  city,  had 
no  advertisement  thereof,  till  three  whole  days 
space  after. 

The  second  place  of  the  World's  Wonders,  we 
give  to  the  Colossus  of  the  Sun,  which  was  at 
Rhodes.  It  was  a  statue,  or  a  figure  of  a  man, 
offered  by  the  Gentiles,  and  dedicated  to  the  Sun, 
and  some  say  to  Jupiter.  It  was  made  of  metal 
of  an  incredible  greatness,  and  in  height  also  like 
a.  huge  tower ;  so  that  it  could  hardly  be  imagined 
how  it  was  made  and  raised  in  that  manner. — 
Pliny,  who  discourseth  on  all  things,  saith,  that 
it  contained  tiireescore  and  ten  cubits  in  height ; 
and  although,  at  the  making  of  it,  there  were  many 
good  workmen  continually  laboring  yet  were  they 
twelve  yeiirs  before  it  could  be  perfected,  and  it 
cost  three  hundred  talents.  He  that  undertook 
the  workmanship  thereof,  was  named  Cares,  an 
Indian  by  birth,  and  scholar  to  Lysippus. 

This  statue  was  so  immeasurably  great,  as  it 
seemed,  that  the  earth  could  not  any  longer  sus- 
tain it,  because,  according  to  Pliny  and  Paulus 
Orosius,  it  stood  not  above  six  and  fifty  years  ;  at 
the  end  of  which  time  it  fell,  by  reason  of  a  great 
quaking  and  tre^nbling  of  the  earth.  After  which 
fall,  and  namely  in  the  time  of  Pliny,  many  went 
to  see  it  as  a  thing  to  wonder  at,  For,  saith  he, 
there  were  few  men  found  that  could  embrace 
the  great  fingers  of  this  statue  ;  so  that  the  very 
least  of  his  fingers  was  greater  than  any  other 
statue's,  how  great  soever.  And  yet  he  speak- 
eth  of  an  liundred  other  colosses  of  meaner  sta- 
ture, which  were  also  at  Rhodes. 

Returning  then  again  to  our  wonderful  colos- 
sus, I  say  tliat  it  lay  there  ruined  a  very  long  time 
ago,  even  till  the  days  of  Pope  Martin  I.,  which 
was  in  the  year  600,  when  the  infidels,  and  the 
Sultan  of  Egypt,  their  captain,  came  upon  the 
Rhodians,  and  according  as  Platinawriteth  in  the 
life  of  Pope  JVIartin,  and  Antonius  Sabellicus,  in 
the  third  part  of  his  book,  they  carried  away  that 
which  they  found  of  the  relics  of  this  colossus, 
and  they  find  nine  hundred  camels  to  be  laden 
with  the  metal. 

In  the  third  place,  we  determine  the  Pyramids 
of  Egypt ;  and  undoubtedlj',  if  that  be  true  which 
historians  have  written  of  them,  they  are  things 
deserving  admiration.  These  Pyramids  were 
certain  buildings,  which  began  beneath  in  quad- 
rangle form,  and  so  rose  up  (in  a  diminishing 
manner)  a  huge  height,  in  the  shape  of  a  pointed 
diamond. 


Among   all  other  pyramids,  historians  make 
particular  mention  of  three  which  were  in  Egypt, 
between  the  city  of  Memphis,  which  is  now  Cairo, 
and  the  isle  that  now  maketh  or  createth  Nilus, 
named  Delta,  one  of  which  is  ranked  among  the 
seven  wonders.     For  it  is  said,  that  to  the  mak- 
ing thereof,  there  were  continually  employed  three 
hundred  and  threescore  thousand  men,  and  the 
work  lasted  twenty  whole  years.     Many  do  af- 
firm it,  and  particularly  Pliny,  in  speaking  more 
amply,  alleging  twelve  authors  for  his  warrant, 
as    Diodorus  Siculus,  Strabo,  Pomponius  Mela, 
Herodotus,    Ammianus  Marcellinus,   and    many 
more,  whereof,  some  say,  that  the  foundation  and 
groundwork  of   tliis   pyramid  covered  and  con- 
tained eight  days'  journey  of  ground  ;  others  say 
seven,  and  most  agree  on  six,  and  as  many  (little 
more  or  less)  in  the   height.     Pliny   saith,  that 
each  quadrangle  or  square  contained  8S3  feet  in 
breadth.     The  stones  were  marble,  brought  out  of 
Arabia,  and  Pomponius  Mela  maintaineth  that 
the  most  part  of  them  were  thirty  feet  in  large- 
ness.    Whereby  may  be  gathered,  that  so  many 
thousand  men  must  need  be  busied,  some  in  cut- 
ting and  squaring  tliose  stones,  others  in  bringing 
and  carrying  them,  and  others  in  laying  them, 
besides    the   mighty   multit;:des   employed   for 
fetching  them  so  far  off,  and  about  other  necessa- 
ry occasions. 

Of  the  other  pyramids  the  like  is  spoken,  at 
least  of  the  other  two  forenamed,  one  wliereof 
was  made  by  the  vanity  of  the  kings  of  Egypt, 
who  were  the  very  richest  in  all  the  world. 

I  find  it  recorded  also,  that  those  pyramids 
served  for  sepulchres  to  their  kings.  And  who- 
soever doth  well  consider  the  multitude  of  He- 
brew people  that  served  in  Egypt,  and  by  whom 
the  kings  made  their  cities  and  fortresses  to  be 
builded,  will  not  be  much  amazed  hereat,in  regard 
that  it  is  very  certain,  that  six  hundred  thousand 
men  on  foot,  besides  a  great  multitude  of  women 
and  small  children,  departed  out  of  that  servi- 
tude, and  that  all  of  them  were  employed,  and 
served  in  those  wonderful  works;  whereby  it  is 
no  marvel  at  all,  that  such  buildings  should  be 
made. 

The  fourth  marvel  or  wonder  was  the  Mauso- 
l£ea,  (now  callled  Mmisoleum).  Artemifia  was 
wife  to  Mausolus,  king  of  Caria,  a  province  in  the 
greater  Asia.  This  woman  (according  to  Aulus 
Gellius,  and  other  historians)  so  dearly  affected 
her  husband,  as  it  was  generally  recorded  for  a 
most  notable  example.  Her  husband,  the  king, 
dying  first,  she  lamented  his  death  with  tears  and 
complaints,  more  than  were  of  ordinary  custom. 
Needs  would  she  erect  a  tomb  or  sepulchre  for 
him,  answerable  to  the  extraordinary  love  she 
bore  him ;  and  such,  indeed,  it  proved  to  be,  that 


THE   SEVEN   WONDERS    OF   THE   WORLD, 


209 


it  was  recorded  amongst  the  seven  wonders  of  the 
world,  The  stone  of  the  whole  structure  was  of 
a  most  excellent  marble,  consisting  of  fotir  hun- 
dred and  eleven  feet  in  circuit  about,  and  five 
and  twenty  cubits  in  height ;  it  had  also  about  it, 
six  and  twenty  columns  of  admirable  stone,  and 
likewise  of  as  fanous  sculpture. 

The  building  was  open  on  all  sides,  with  arches 
of  seventy-three  feet  in  wideness,  and  it  was 
framed  by  the  hands  of  the  most  exquisite  work- 
men then  to  be  found.  The  perfection  of  the 
work  was  such,  and  that  on  the  whole  body  so 
sumptuous  and  beautiful,  as  partly  it  was  there- 
fore called  Mausokea,  and  in  regard  also  of  the 
king,  for  whom  it  was  made  ;  so  that  even  to  this 
very  day,  when  any  tombs  of  such  superficial  art 
are  made,  they  are  called  maufolasas.  Of  these 
things  mention  is  made  by  Pliny,  Pomponius 
Mela,  Herodotus;  Strabo  also remembereth  them, 
so  doth  Aulus  Gelliiis,  and  many  other  historians. 
It  is  found  written,  that  Artemisia,  after  tlie  death 
of  her  husband,  lived  in  continual  tears  and 
mourning,  and  that  she  died  before  the  work 
could  be  fully  finished ;  having  drunk  the  bones 
of  her  husband,  beat  into  powder,  which  she 
burned  and  buried  in  lier  own  body,  that  it  might 
be  the  sepulchre  for  his. 

The  Jifth  edifice  of  these  wonders,  was  the 
Temple  of  Diana,  whom  the  Gentiles  adored  as  a 
goddess,  and  it  was  builded  in  the  city  of  Ephe- 
sus,  in  Asia,  in  the  province  of  Ionia.  Of  this 
temple,  great  speeches  were  made  throughout  the 
world,  so  that  one  named  Democritus  wrote  a  par- 
ticular book  thereof  Plinv,  writing  of  this  tem- 
pie,  saith,  that  the  Amazons  caused  it  to  be  built, 
and  that  it  contained  four  hundred  and  five  and 
twenty  feet  in  length,  and  two  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  in  largeness.  The  work  was  so  ad- 
mirably artificial,  that  it  had  220  years  to  the 
perfecting.  It  was  built  in  a  lake,  to  prevent  the 
peril  of  e  irthquakes ;  and  it  is  said  withal,  that  on 
the  foundation  was  laid  great  store  of  coal  dust 
and  wool  thereupon,  the  better  to  make  firm  and 
sure  the  moist  and  marshy  place.  It  had  an  hun- 
dred and  seven  columns  or  pillars  of  most  excellent 
marble,  and  each  of  them  was  made  by  all  the 
kings  of  A-ia  ;  thirty-seven  of  them  were  of  most 
curious,  cunning  and  sculpture,  and  all  the  others 
of  the  choicest  marble. 

All  historians  do  consent  with  one  accord, 
that  the  pillars  of  this  temple  supported  the 
planked  deling  of  wood,  tlie  most  excellently 
wrought  that  could  be  devised,  and  that  this 
whole  covering  was  of  cedar,  and  all  the  doors 
and  wainscoted  works  were  of  cypress. 

Yet  afterward-:,  a  villain,  seeing  this  solemn 
and  sovereign  building,  conceived  a  lewd  desire 
to  burn  it,  as,  indeed,  he  did.     And  being  taken 


for  the  fact,  confessed  that  he  did  it  to  no  other 
end  but  to  leave  a  famous  renown  of  his  deed  to 
the  world.  Solinus  and  Strabo  both  say,  that  he 
was  named  Herostratus,  and  that  of  him  came  up 
the  usual  proverb,  that  when  any  man  would 
strive  to  be  famous  for  some  vicious  deed,  people 
would  commonly  say — This  is  the  renown  of 
Herostratus. 

The  sixth  wonder  was  the  idol  or  image  of 
Jupiter  Olympus,  which  was  in  his  temple  in 
Achaia,  between  the  cities  of  Ellis  and  J'isa  ;  and 
the  place  was  named  Olympus,  as  also  the  tem- 
ple, in  regard  of  Jupiter  Olympus,  of  whom  write 
both  Strabo  and  Pomponius  Mela.  They  maintain 
that  this  statue  or  image,  which  stood  in  the 
temple,  was  mnch  renowned,  as  well  for  artificial 
perfection  and  admirable  workmanship,  as  also 
for  the  greatness  thereof  It  was  made  of  por- 
phyry, some  say  of  ivory,  and  by  the  hand  of 
I'hidias,  the  most  excellent  carver  and  engraver 
for  imagery,  in  gold  or  ivory,  that  ever  was  ;  al- 
beit, Pliny  nameth  divers  others.  Strabo  saith, 
that  the  excellency  thereof  consisted  in  the  great- 
ness; and  yet  the  matter  which  made  it  more  ad- 
mirable, was  in  the  being  wrouglit  of  porphyry, 
knit  and  united  together  of  infinite  small  pieces. 
Some  say  that  Phidias  was  taxed  with  one  only 
imperfection,  to  wit,  that  he  had  not  proportioned 
the  image  to  the  capacity  of  the  temple,  because 
he  had  made  it  sitting,  and  so  great,  as  when  due 
consideration  was  made,  what  the  height  thereof 
would  have  been,  if  he  bad  made  him  standing  up- 
right on  his  feet,  the  temple  had  no  way  been 
able  to  have  contained  him.  Nevertheless,  the 
renown  of  this  image  did  most  highly  illustrate 
the  place. 

Now,  concerning  the  seventh  wonder,  some  say 
that  it  was  a  tower  which  stood  in  the  Isle  of 
Pharos,  near  to  the  city  of  Alexandria,  in  Egypt. 
Pharos  was  a  small  island,  long  and  narrow, seat- 
ed on  the  coast  of  Egypt,  over  against  the  mouth 
of  Nilus,  which,  in  former  time  (according  to  Pom- 
ponius Mela  and  Pliny)  was  wholly,  as  it  were, 
engirt  with  firm  land,  and  afterward  in  the  times 
of  these  authors,  the  sea  embraced  this  firm  land, 
excepting  only  a  bridge,  whereby  men  went  from 
the  one  place  to  the  other.  In  the  firm  land  is 
the  great  city  of  Alexandria,  builded  by  Alexan- 
der the  Great,  which  city  was  afterwards  a  colo- 
ny of  Julius  Cresar.  In  this  isle  (named  Pharos, 
after  the  name  of  a  great  pilot,  who  belonged  to 
Menelaus,  ami  was  tliere  buried)  the  kings  of 
Egypt  erected  a  tower  of  marble,  marvellous  in 
height  and  cunning  workmanship,  upon  a  moun- 
tain environed  with  water ;  the  artificial  perform- 
ance of  which  tower  was  such  that  it  cost  800 
talents,  which  value  four  hundred  and  fourscore 
thousand  crowns,  after  the  computation  of  Bud 


210 


RUNGA. 


seus.  And  it  was  built  for  no  other  purpose,  but 
to  set  up  in  the  night-time  a  lighted  fire  thereon, 
beacon-wise,  to  guide  and  direct  such  ships  as 
came  to  take  landing  there  ;  and  this  tower,  ac- 
cording to  the  greatest  ojjinion?,  was  erected  by 
King  Ptolemteus  Philadelphus,  and  the  mas- 
ter architect  that  made  it  was  named  Sistratus, 
which  is  confirmed  to  us  by  Pliny. 

Coesar,  in  his  "  Commentaries,"  highly  praiseth 
the  height  and  workmanship  of  this  tower;  and 
saith,  that  it  was  also  called  Pharos,  as  taking 
name  of  the  island. 

Thus,  this  tower  was  the  last  of  the  wonders,  al- 
though by  divers  it  is  not  named  in  their  number, 
but  instead  thereof,  the  hanging  gardens  of  Baby- 
lon are  reckoned,  whereat  we  have  already 
hinted.  Ccelius  Rhodigiuus,  discoursing  on  the 
seven  wonders  of  the  world,  dotli  not  insert  this 
tower  of  Pharos,  but  the  Obelisk  of  Semiramis, 
which  was  150  feet  in  height,  and  24  feet  square 


in  a  quadrangle,  so  that  the  whole  circuit  was  90 
feet,  and  this  stone  was  so  taken  whole,  out  of 
the  mountains  of  Armenia,  and  by  the  command 
of  Semiramis,  brought  into  Chaldean  Babylon. 
But  in  truth,  when  due  consideration  is  made, 
how  it  should  be  taken  out  of  the  quarry,  brought 
thence,  and  erected  up  on  end,  it  miglit  appear  a 
matter  incredible,  if  antiquity  had  not  yielded 
things  as  strange,  and  certified  to  us  by  authors 
well  deserving  belief,  yea,  and  of  other  great 
obelisks  made  by  the  kings  of  Egypt.  Pliny  de- 
scribeth  how  they  are  fetched  forth  of  their  quar- 
ries. Of  the  pyramids,  obelisks,  statues,  and 
colosses,  mention  is  made  by  Polyphius,  in  the 
beginning  of  his  book,  called  "Hypnerotomachia." 
Therefore,  I  need  not  to  make  any  further  rela- 
tion of  them,  fearing  I  have  offended  already,  by 
presuming  upon  the  reader's  patience,  in  what 
hath  been  said  concerning  these  seven  wonders  of 
the  world. 


>-> — ♦- 


R  U  N  G  A 


BY     WILLIAM      OLAND      BOURNE 


"  Not  far  from  Shingona  Holly  stood  a  temple  of  the  idol  Runga.  *  *  *  There  was  a  lamp  standing  before  the  idol 
but  it  had  gone  out ;  and  there  was  a  garland  of  flowers  hung  around  its  neck  ;  but  it  was  withered  ;  and  as  the  beams  of 
the  roof  had  fallen  in,  the  image  was  covered  with  dust  and  dirt." 

Near  the  village  of  Shingona,  in  a  fertile  Indian  plain. 
Stood  a  massive  idol  temple  where  the  demons  held  their  reign  ; 
There  it  stood  upon  a  hill-top,  with  its  gloomy  pillars  high, 
As  it  lured  the  pilgrim  onward,  standing  out  against  the  sky. 

There  the  worshipper  of  Runga,  with  his  many  offerings  came, 
Falling  down  in  adoration  at  the  idol's  sacred  name ; 
And  they  flocked  around  the  altar,  and  their  offerings  humbly  laid, 
As  they  cried  aloud  to  Runga,  and  their  willing  homage  paid. 

And  they  cried  aloud  to  Runga,  but  he  never  heard  their  prayers. 
And  they  cried  from  morn  till  evening,  but  he  never  soothed  their  cares; 
And  they  rung  their  bells  to  call  liim,  but  he  never  stooped  to  hear, 
For  an  idol  deaf  was  Runga,  though  they  wept  the  bitter  tear. 

There  the  poor  benighted  Hindoo,  in  his  darkness  long  was  led, 
While  the  sighing  millions  perished,  and  were  numbered  with  the  dead. 
But  the  idol  that  they  worshipped,  and  the  god  that  they  adored, 
■  Was  of  wood  grotesquely  graven,  yet  they  blindly  called  him  "Lord:"' 


RUNGA. 


211 


Then  there  came  a  Christian  teacher,  and  he  said  to  all  the  throng, 
"  Will  ye  -worship  still  your  Runga,  whom  ye  now  have  worshipped  long  ? 
Do  ye  make  a  god  of  Runga,  and  in  him  put  all  your  trust? 
He  is  helpless  !  If  you  leave  him  he  will  crumble  into  dust. 

"  Let  alone  your  idol  Runga !  Take  no  further  care  of  him  ! 

He  can't  save  himself  from  ruin,  neither  head,  nor  foot,  nor  limb ! 

And  he  cannot  save  his  temple,  but  to  ruin  it  will  fall, 

And  your  eyes  will  see  that  Runga  is  no  god  on  whom  to  call." 

Then  the  poor  benighted  Hindoos  pondered  as  they  stood  and  heard. 
And  they  said  to  one  another,  '•  Tiiere  is  reason  in  this  word  !" 
And  they  looked  at  ancient  Runga,  and  they  left  him  there  alone. 
Coming  back  to  see  him  standing,  senseless  as  a  block  of  stone. 

Lo  1  the  lamp  upon  his  altar  flickered  till  it  died  away, 
And  the  light  was  strange  and  gloomy,  for  it  had  no  sunny  ray  ; 
And  the  ancient  fiiith  in  Runga  died  in  many  a  trusting  breast. 
When  they  saw  the  darkness  gather  round  the  temple's  honored  guest. 

Then  the  richly  chosen  garland  from  the  Indian  garden  strung, 
Lost  its  bloom  and  quickly  withered,  though  around  an  idul  hung  ; 
And  its  freshness  and  its  fragrance,  with  its  gorgeous  beauty  died, 
In  the  mouldering  gloom  and  silence  which  the  brooding  god  defied. 

And  the  temple  is  decaying !  From  the  gilded  roof  o'erhead 

All  the  massive  beams  are  falling  where  the  worship  long  was  said ; 

And  the  ceiling  on  old  Runga,  in  a  thick  enfolding  crust. 

Wraps  the  idol  in  tlie  silence  iu  a  kindred  shroud  of  dust. 

Even  so  as  fell  old  Runga  shall  the  countless  idols  fall ! 
And  the  darkness  of  oblivion  shroud  them  with  its  funeral  pall  I 
While  the  voice  of  love  and  mercy  bids  the  worshippers  draw  nigh 
Where  the  radiant  cross  of  Jesus  gives  redemption  from  on  hio-h. 

In  the  dark  yet  living  temple  shall  a  heavenly  light  appear. 
While  the  spirit  turns  to  Jesus  with  its  love's  most  grateful  tear ; 
And  the  flowers  shall  shed  their  fragrance  in  the  wealth  of  their  perfume 
And  in  blissful  fields  shall  ever  with  the  Rose  of  Sharon  bloom. 


THE   PAST  AND  THE  FUTURE. 


When  I  think  of  the  past,  and  with  quivering  glances 
Look  back  on  my  spring  and  my  summer  suns, 

I  feel  it  is  true,  that,  as  age  advances, 
Life's  river  more  coldly  and  darkly  mm. 

Yet  far  be  the  spirit  of  fretful  repining, 
That  life's  dewy  morn  cometh  back  no  more — 

That  I  bask  not  again  in  the  noon  of  its  shining, 
And  dream  the  bright  holiday  ne'er  will  be  o'er  I 

All  fled  though  they  are,  and  though  memory  weepeth- 
Frail  sorrower  she — oTer  time's  decay, 


The  disciplined  spirit  a  tranquil  eye  keepeth 
In  faith  of  the  davrn  of  eternity's  day  I 

And  though  darkling  and  cold,  beneath  evening's  shadows, 
Speeds  on  to  its  ocean  life's  sin-biHow'd  .stream, 

'Twill  gush  out  afresh  in  the  ever  green  meadows, 
Aa  "  clear  as  the  crystal,"  and  "still"  as  a  dream. 

And  by  its  bright  banks,  love-enamell'd  and  glowing 
With  glories  transplanted  from  Eden's  pure  bed. 

Will  Blessedness  walk,  royal  trophies  bestowing 
On  all  who  have  waah'd  in  the  blood  that  was  shed. 


HOMANCE    OF    EYERY-DAY    LIFE. 


BY       ION 


TuE  beautiful,  the  noble,  and  the  good  are  all 
about  usj,  even  on  our  e very-day  path,  the  life 
which  is  about  us  lacks  not  for  the  poetry  "which 
fiUeth  all  things.  How  manj'-phased  is  this  life 
about  us!  Here  may  we  read  tales  of  high  chi- 
valrous devotion,  of  deep-souled,  earnest  hero- 
ism. It,  too,  has  its  tales  of  true  and  tenderest 
pathos,  its  sorrows  too  deep  for  utterance,  its 
tragedies  stern  and  terrible.  ISIystery  is  about  it 
and  in  it.  Now  you  hear  a  wild  exulting  shout 
of  jubilance  and  glee,  and  in  a  moment  a  pro- 
longed aud  agonizing  wail  of  most  tragic  soitow. 
You  see  the  bright  beaming  face,  covering  per- 
chance the  gnawed  and  cankered  heart.  There 
is  the  seemingly  staid,  sad  countenance,  hiding, 
it  may  be,  a  soul  full  of  secret,  hypocritical  glad- 
ness. And  all  about  you,  you  see  a  dread  strug- 
gle and  battle  of  life — some  combatants  with 
closed  lips,  and  firm  unblenching  eye ;  others, 
with  trembling  aspect,  giving  vent  to  oft-repeated 
sighs  and  groans.  Oh,  the  mystery  of  the  burden 
of  life  !  We  pace  our  busy,  crowded  streets,  our 
thoughts  the  while  winging  their  way  through 
old  historic  lands,  and  scenes,  and  ages,  recking 
not  of  the  sad  sorrow  which  is  eating  away  the 
heart  of  the  maiden  who  has  just  passed  us,  spite 
of  her  heroic  struggles  to  forget  the  cause  of  all 
her  misery ;  nor  of  the  soul-conflicts  of  that 
young  man,  as  he  nightly  tosses  on  his  restless 
pillow,  in  vain  endeavoring  to  solve  the  mystery 
that  surrounds  him ;  nor  of  the  desolateness  of 
that  old  man  who  had  just  buried  the  last  friend 
of  his  youth,  and  whose  sorrows  heavily  press 
upon  his  bowed  head.  And  how  we  miss  the 
gladness  which  abounds  in  the  world,  spite  of 
sin  and  sorrow,  when  we  transport  our  thoughts 


to  some  far  distant  clime  and  age  1  Beautiful 
nature  is  everywhere  present,  and  that  to  make 
us  glad.  All  pleasant  sights  and  sounds  will 
greet  our  eyes  and  ears  if  we  will  but  open  them 
and  attend.  The  bright,  happy  faces  of  friends 
are  ever  ready  to  smile  upon  us.  Children — 
often  so  like  dew-drops  on  the  flower  of  life, 
soon  dried  up  by  the  scorching  sun — these  with 
their  innocent  gay  prattle  we  may  have  for  our 
companions : 

To  look  upon  the  fair  face  of  a  child, 

Feels  like  a  resurrection  of  the  heart, 

Children  are  vast  in  blessings  ;  kings  and  queens, 

According  to  the  dynasties  of  love. 

The  might  and  the  delight  of  nature  lies 

In  them,  and  for  them  earth  is  vfhat  it  is. 

Then  there  is  in  the  frolicsomeness  of  youth,  and 
the  harmonies  struck  out  by  the  meeting  of  two 
fair  souls  who  decide  evermore  to  sing  in  con- 
certs ;  and  those  gay  hearts,  who  bear  every- 
thing cheering,  having  a  merry  laugh  and  witty 
jest  at  life's  petty  ills,  yet  withal  full  of  general 
genial  seriousness ;  and  the  gentle,  loving  ones, 
ever  ready  to  soothe  the  sorrowful,  and  relieve 
the  weary  and  over-burdened ;  these  and  num- 
berless other  sources  of  joy  and  gladness  we  miss 
when  we  neglect  to  read  the  book  of  life  about 
us. 

Life  is  a  great  poem,  full  of  tragedy  and  pathos, 
comedy  and  laughter,  mad  fun  and  sad  sorrow ; 
having  strange  jilots  and  denouements,  but  bearing 
the  impress  of  a  great  unity,  manifesting  a  serious 
Godward  earnestness  of  purpose ;  and  nowhere 
can  we  study  this  great  poem  so  well  as  on  our 
daily  life-path,  in  the  life  which  is  about  us. 


STANZAS. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  winds  weep,  and  the  plover  cry  j 
But  go  thou  by. 


Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime, 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unhlest ; 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt  ;  but  I  am  sick  of  time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie. 
Go  by— go  by  ! 


'3! 
'-9 


JDljij  iin  ,?iinnntr  llnstH  jFiih? 


Written  by  J.  E.  CARPENTER. 


Andante  con  Espressione. 


CoMPOSBD  BT  GEORGE  BARKER. 
>  > 


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bloom  to    tell,     How  brief  a  season  love  may  dwell '.' 


Tlicii  while  pnmmer  roses  last, 

Oh  !  let's  be  friends  tocrctlicr, 
Summer  time  will  soon  be  past, 
Wlien  autumn  leaves  around  lis  cast, 

And  then  comes  wintry  weather. 
Surely  as  the  summer  day, 
Friendship,  too,  will  pass  away. 


But  though  summer  roses  die. 

And  love  gives  place  to  reason. 
Friendship  pass  without  a  sigh. 
And  all  on  earth  pass  coldly  by. 

It's  but  a  wintry  season. 
And  friendship,  love,  and  roses  too, 
The  gpring-time  shall  again  renew. 


THE    MARTYRDOM   OF   POLYCARP 


BY     REV.     RUFUS 


Among  the  various  objects  wliich  excite  human 
admiration,  few  are  comparable  with  tlie  liigh 
achievements  of  man  himself  In  the  world's  his- 
tory, the  brightest  page  is  filled  with  the  record 
of  those  who  have  nobly  dared,  and  nobly  done, 
and  nobly  died.  Perhaps  it  was  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected,— while  obtuseness  or  indifference  to  moral 
distinctions  was  so  generally  prevalent, — while 
the  moral  sense  was  so  little  excercised  and  cul- 
tivated,— while  so  much  disguise  was  intentionally 
cast  around  the  purposes  of  the  more  prominent 
actors, — that  much  accuracy  of  just  discrimination 
should  be  manifested,  in  meting  out  to  each  his 
righteous  award. 

The  word,  martyr,  originally  meant  only  a  wit- 
ness ;  and  the  corresponding  derivative  words  had 
a  signification  equally  definite  and  limited.  In 
processoftime,  as  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  act  of  witnessing  became  scarcely  less  interest- 
ing than  the  testimony  itself,  the  two  became  com- 
bined, and,  by  a  natural  and  easy  transition,  this 
adventitious  idea,  in  the  end,  usurped  the  place  of 
the  primary.  In  many  minds,  the  term,  martyr, 
now  suggest  only  the  idea  of  a  sufferer,  not  a  wit- 
ness.    In  others,  the  two  ideas  are  still  combined. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  the  second  century 
of  the  Christian  era,  under  the  reign  of  the  younger 
Antoninus,  wI)ose  philosophy,  much  as  it  has 
been  extolled,  did  not  preserve  him  from  the  ca- 
price and  cruelty  of  becoming  a  persecutor  of  a 
portion  of  his  subjects,  the  imperial  decree  for 
this  purpose  was  again  issued.  Imagination  may 
follow  the  pretorian  guard,  which  bore  this  rescript 
from  imperial  Rome  to  her  subject  cities  of  Asia 
Minor.  The  swift  galley,  freigiited  with  the  deadly 
mandate,  may  be  followed,  as  she  swept  her  proud 
course  along  the  shores  of  classic  Greece,  and, 
threading  her  way  between  the  smiling  islands 
of  the  Archipelago,  entered  a  long  winding  bay, 
upon  its  eastern  boundary.  As  the  evening  sun 
gilded  its  peaceful  waters,  how  little  iu  harmony 
with  the  murderous  purposes  of  that  noble  galley 
are  all  the  surrounding  objects !  At  the  head  of 
that  bay,  on  the  declivity  of  a  mountain,  running 
down  to  its  very  shore,  there  then  stood  (and 
still  stands,  after  destruction  ten  times  repeated) 


the  city  of  Smyrna,  the  queen  of  Anatolia,  ex- 
tolled by  the  ancients  under  the  title  of  "  the 
lovely,"  "  the  crown  of  Ionia,"  "  the  ornament 
of  Asia."  "Cliosen,"  says  our  countryman  Ste- 
vens, who  recently  visited  it  (and  whose  charm- 
ing volumes,  depicting  it  and  innumerable  other 
o  ojbcts  of  interest  and  instruction,  who  has  not 
read  ?) — "chosen  with  that  happy  taste  which 
distinguished  the  Greeks  in  selecting  the  sites  of 
their  ancient  cities,  its  bold  slope,  which  extended 
quite  down  to  the  bay,  covered  by  tiers  of  houses 
rising  one  above  another,  now,  but  not  then,  inter, 
spersed  with  domes  and  minarets,  the  monuments 
of  the  Moslem  faith  ;  and  crowned  on  the  summit 
of  the  hill  by  a  large  and  solitary  castle."  That 
galley,  so  deepl}'  freighted  with  destruction, 
reaches  the  shores,  and  the  oflBcer  in  charge  has- 
tens to  the  proconsul's  palace,  with  the  bloody 
mandate  in  his  hands.  The  next  day's  sun  shall 
witness  the  execution  of  this  stern  decretal. 

"Search  out  these  doomed  men,"  said  this  ap- 
pointed executioner  of  Rome's  authority.  "  In  the 
meantime,  let  no  means  be  spared,  to  prepare,  to 
excite,  to  exasperate  the  minds  of  all  the  populace, 
against  those  who  are  to  be  the  subjects  of  im- 
perial vindictiveness.  Let  the  Jews  be  embitter- 
ed against  the  votaries  of  that  Messiah,  who  is  by 
them  so  mucli  abhorred.  Let  the  artisans,  whose 
craft  has  been  endangered  by  the  deserted  shrines 
of  our  temples,  be  invited  to  exterminate  the  sect 
which  threatens  their  overthrow.  Let  all  the 
inveterate,  lung  smothered  prejudice  against  these 
innovators,  be  now  aroused  and  rekindled.  "With 
all  these  means,  see  to  it  that  tlie  love  of  excite- 
ment, of  games  and  gladiatorial  sports  be  turned 
in  the  same  direction.  Let  the  multitude  be  stim- 
ulated to  crave  fresh  victims,  and  applaud  even 
the  most  sanguinary  execution  of  the  laws." 
When  prejudice  is  thus  backed  by  unlimited 
power,  it  is  easy  to  see  with  what  fearful  celerity 
such  orders  might  bo  executed. 

We  must  pass  over,  with  slight  notice,  the 
events  which  transpired  during  tlie  first  few  days 
of  the  pouring  forth  of  this  persecuting  fury. 
Why  should  we  dwell  on  the  anguish  and  torture 
iuflicted,  by  scourging  the  flesh,  till  its  power  of 


218 


THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  POLYCARP. 


endurance  was  exhausted;  then  stretching  the 
niansled  and  swollen  frames  of  these  victims  on 
the  rough  points  of  sea-shells,  or  upon  the  alter- 
nate heads  and  points  of  spears ;  then  casting  their 
gory  bodies,  while  life  yet  remained,  to  the  most 
voracious  wild  beasts  I  But  these  forms  of  torture, 
revolting  and  horrid  as  the  bare  mention  of  them 
may  seem,  were,  in  reality,  among  the  mildest 
which  their  ingenuity  excercised  itself  in  applying 
to  these  unoffending,  unresisting  subjects. 

One  of  these  victims,  a  young  man  of  unusual 
distinction  and  promise,  named  Germanicus,  was 
particularly  eminent,  as  a  martyr.     And  though 
the  proconsul, — moved,  it  may  be,  by  his  youth, 
his  noble  family,  and  lofty  bearinr-, — strove  ear- 
nestly to  persuade  him  to  have  compassion  upon 
himself,  and,  by  complying  with  the  idolatrous 
practices  required  of  him,  save  himself  from  the 
tortures  and  cruel  death  which  otherwise  awaited 
him,  he  hesitated  not,  but  even  irritated  the  wild 
beast  which  was  led  forth  against  him.     Upon 
this  "  glorious  death,"  as  subsequent  historians 
denominated  it,  the  whole  multitude,  amazed  at 
his  courage,  and  at  the  fortitude  of  the  whole  race 
jigainst  whom  this  persecuting  rage  was  directed, 
began  with  one  voice  to  call  for  the  aged  patriarch, 
as   a  more  distinguished  victim  than  those  who 
had  already  suffered.     He  had  not,  amid  these 
scenes,  presumptuously  courted  persecution  and 
danger,  nor  did  he  timidly  shrink  from  it.     By 
the  warm  persuasions  of  his  friends,  he  was  at 
first  induced  to   retire  before   the  furious  storm. 
But  now,  that  the  public  voice  thus  called  for  liim 
by  name,   and   the  officers  came  to  arrest  him, 
though  a  further  opportunity  of  escape  was  open 
to  him,  he  nobly  rejected  it,   saying,    with  the 
spirit  of  willing   self-sacrifice,  "  The   will   of  the 
Lord  be  done,"     With  a  benevolence  worthy  of 
the  disciple  of  him  who  prayed  for  his  murderers 
in  death,  he  ordered  suitable  refreshments  to  be 
set  before  those  who  came  to  arrest  him.     Then, 
when  he  had  offered  up  an  humble  prayer, — re- 
membering in  it,  witi]    minute  particularity,  all 
that   had    been  connected  with  him, — breatlied 
forth  with  such  fervor  and  humility  as  melted  the 
iron-hearted  soldiers  who  had  seized  him,  they 
led   him   to  the  city.     But  who   are  these,  in  a 
chariot  of  state,  that  come  to  meet  the  venerable 
prisoner  by  the  way  ?     They  are  no  less  person- 
ages than  Herod  the  Irenarch,  or  head  officer  of 
the  police,  with  his   father  Nicetes.     They  per- 
suade him  to  take  his  seat  by  their  side,  and  with 
insinuating  deference  to  his  gray  hairs,  they  strive 
to  win  him  from  his   steadfastness   of  purpose. 
"  What  great  harm  can  there  be  in  addressing  di- 
vine honors  to  Csesar,  and  offering,  at  least  one 


grain  of  incense  upon  the  Idol's  altar  ?"     At  first 
he  remained  silent,  and  they,  encouraged,  renewed 
their  solicitations.     Perceiving  their   misconcep- 
tion of  his  feelings,  with  great  dignity  and  calm- 
ness, but  so  firmly  as  utterly  annihilated  their 
hopes  of  success,  he  answered,  "I  shall  never  do 
what  you   advise  me."     Then  they  turned  their 
flatteries  to   the  coarsest  abuse,  and  thrust  him 
from  their  car  with  inhuman  violence.     Injured 
by  the  fall,  he  bore  the  indignity  with  uncomplain- 
ing meekness,  and,  fast  as  the  tottering  steps  of 
age  would  bear  him,  he  hastened  to  the  stadium. 
The  proconsul  was  already  there.     To  the  ques- 
tion, "Who  art  thou  V  he  fearlessly  replied,  "I 
am  Polycarp."     The  renewed   attempts   of  this 
vice-regent  of  Rome,  to  induce  the  venerable  man 
to  swear  by  Ciesar,  or  perform  some  other  act,  in- 
compatible with  the  sacred  dictates  of  his  con- 
science, he  steadily  resisted. 

"Revile  Christ,  and  swear  ;  then  will  I  dismiss 
you,"  said  the  proconsul. 

Polycarp  replied,  "Eighty  and  six  years  have 
I  served  him,  and  he  never  did  me  wrong ;  how, 
then,  can  I  now  blaspheme  my  king  that  has  sav- 
ed me?" 

The  governor  still  continuing  to  urge  him  to 
swear  by  the  genius  of  Csesar,  Polycarp  said, 
"  Hear  my  free  confession :  I  am  a  Christian  ;  and 
if  you  would  know  what  Christianity  is,  grant  me 
a  day  and  listen  to  me." 

The  proconsul  said,  "I  have  wild  beasts  at  hand ; 
I  will  cast  you  to  them  unless  you  change  your 
mind." 

He  answered,  "Call  them;  for  we  have  no 
reason  to  change  from  the  better  to  the  worse,but 
it  is  good  to  turn  from  wickedness  to  virtue." 

Again  he  urged  him.  "I  will  cause  you  to  be 
consumed  by  fire,  should  you  despise  the  beasts, 
and  not  change  your  mind." 

Polycarp  answered,  "You  threaten  fire,  that 
burns  for  a  moment,  and  is  then  put  out ;  but  you 
consider  not  the  coming  judgment,  and  the  fire 
of  eternal  punishment,  reserved  for  the  wicked." 

The  Governor,  astonished  at  his  confidence, — 
that  he  not  only  refused  to  retract,  but  continued 
undismayed,  his  countenance  brightening  with 
joy, — sent  forth  the  herald  to  proclaim  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  stadium,  "Polycarp  confesses  himself  a 
Christian,"  This  was  equivalent  to  pronouncing 
the  sentence  of  death  against  him  ;  and  that  blood- 
thirsty populace,  idolaters  and  Jews,  with  united 
vociferation,  cried  out,  "This  is  the  teacher  of 
Asia,  the  father  of  Christians,  who  causes  our  gods 
to  be  forgotten,  teaching  the  multitude  neither  to 
sacrifice  nor  worship  them." 


THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  POLYCARP. 


219 


"Burn  him  alive  !"  "Burn  him  alive  !"  -was 
ao-w  shouted  and  reechoed  through  the  throng. 
Fuel  was  collected  from  every  side,  with  surpris- 
ing avidity  ;  their  victim  stood  bound  before  them. 
He  required  no  fastening  to  the  stake,  but  calmly 
said,  "He  that  now  gives  me  strength,  will  enable 
me  to  remain  unmoved,  even  upon  the  pile." 

Then  breatliing  forth  an  humble  prayer,  more 
full  of  lofty  virtue  and  true  piety  than  heathen 
philosophy  ever  conceived, — in  which,  be  it  re- 
membered, his  privilege  of  bearing  witness,  in 
this  martyr  death,  for  the  truth  of  the  religion  of 
his  Lord,  was  distinctly  and  gratefully  recognis- 
ed,— he  was  made  to  suffer  the  cruel  punishment 
prepared  for  iiim.  His  brethren  and  fellow-dis- 
ciples then  gathered  up  his  bones,  and  deposited 
them  in  an  appropriate   sepulchre. 

Let  us  consider  the  elements  of  real  greatness 
evinced  by  the  true  martyr.  Wisdom,  benevo- 
lence, self-control,  a  firm  tenacity  of  purpose,  which 
remains  unshaken  in  most  adverse  circumstances, 
and  cheerful,  generous  self-denial,  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  any  noble  end,  especially  one  which 
is  widely  promotive  of  human  happiness,  have 
pretty  uniformly  received  the  approval,  as  Ihey 
deserve  the  homage  and  the  imitation  of  mankind. 
But  where  else  will  these  be  found  in  such  perfect 
combination  and  harmony,  as  in  the  character  of 
him  who  bears  witness  for  the  truth,  on  some  top- 
ic of  transcendent  interest  and  value,  and  who  is 
willing  to  seal  that  testimony  with  his  blood  ? 
He  sees  the  truth  clearly.  Its  value,  its  adapted- 
ness  to  promote  the  happiness  of  those  around 
him,  is  obvious  to  his  view :  and  when  he  sees  that 
truth  assailed,  its  illuminating  influence  checked, 
its  power  and  progress  impeded,  he  is  also  called, 
it  may  be,  to  abjure  it.  How  many  opposing  in- 
fluences conspire  to  bar  up  his  way,  and  turn  him 
from  the  high  and  holy  purpose  of  bearing  his 
"witness  of  sufferings,"  in  behalf  of  that  truth  1 
Self-preservation,  the  love  of  life, — tliat  strongest 
of  our  impulsive  principles, — conspires  with  fear 
of  suffering,  or  of  shame,  while  a  temporizing  ex- 
pediency, which  puts  on  the  garb  of  prudence, 
joins  in  the  effort  to  cause  him  to  falter.  But  all 
these  combined  do  not  outweigli  his  regard  to 
truth,  and  his  benevolence  to  those  who  need  its 
salutary  influence.  How  noble,  too,  tliat  exhibi- 
tion of  firmness,  which  preserves  from  irresolution, 
when  motives  and  impulses  so  powerful,  would 
incline  him  to  hesitate!  What  self-control,  to 
hush  the  commotion  within,  and,  undaunted,  sur- 
vey the  accumulated  terrors  without! 

This  spirit  evinces  its  superiority,  not  only  by 
the  principles  which  it  developes,  but  by  the  cir- 
cumstances and  concomitants  of  its  exhibition. 
Viewed  in  comparison  with  some  of  the  objects 


of  highest  admiration,  as  they  are  usually  re- 
garded, this  claim  will  be  made  more  obvious. 
The  warrior  has  personal  courage ;  but  how  low 
a  rank  would  justice  award  to  it,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances of  its  usual  exercise  I  Maddened  by 
a  passing  excitement, — lured  on  and  sustained  by 
the  high- wrought  sympathy  of  the  hour, — almost 
every  sense  taken  captive  by  some  specious  or 
powerful  hallucination, — iiow  little,  at  such  a 
moment,  is  requisite  to  carry  him  onward  in  the 
current,  even  to  the  peril  of  life  !  Very  little 
surely,  more  than  mere  animal  impulse,  and  that 
not  of  the  noblest  kind.  Those  who  have  willed 
the  contest,  and  who  set  the  opposing  masses  in 
hostile  motion,  do  not  generally  share  the  person- 
al peril.  These  master  spirits,  who  play  the  des- 
perate game  of  war,  have  long  since  discovered, 
and  many  of  them  have  honestly  testified,  that 
high  moral  excellence  is  quite  incompatible  with 
those  fighting  qualities  which  are  most  estimable 
in  those  who  are  compelled  to  be  pliant  instru- 
ments ofthe  unhallowed  ambition  of  their  master. 
The  common  soldier  may  sometimes  think  ;  and 
the  sober  exercise  of  even  a  few  moments'  reflec- 
tion will  be  sure  to  unfit  him  forliis  employment. 
Like  that  private,  who  was  observed  musing  in 
melancholy  mood,  after  one  ofthe  bloody  battles 
of  the  Peninsular  war,  and  when  asked  the  reason 
of  his  dejection  by  his  commander,  replied,  "to 
think  how  many  widows  I  have  this  day  made 
for  six  pence."  A  score  or  two  of  such  thinking 
soldiers  would  be  more  dreaded  in  the  army  or 
the  camp,  than  the  united  influence  of  the  most 
debasing  vices.  These  fit  men  to  be  the  supple 
tools  ofarbitrary  power.  Reflection  throws  bar- 
riers insurmountable  in  the  way.  How  unlike 
the  courage  which  needs  such  appliances  and  con- 
comitants, is  the  heroism  of  the  martyr !  No 
maddening  passions  carry  him  on  in  thoughtless 
frenzy.  No  confused  din  of  martial  music,  and 
the  cannon's  roar,  with  shouts,  and  groans,  and 
bustling  strife,  make  him  forgetful  of  duty  and 
of  right,  but  in  the  calmness  of  the  soul's  collect- 
ed powers,  with  a  moral  vision  purified  and  ex- 
alted, he  sees  truth,  immortal  truth,  to  be  more 
valuable  than  life,  and  nobly  makes  the  exchange. 
The  philosopher  may  cxinbit  a  sincere  and  ar- 
dent love  of  truth,  both  in  it<<  pursuit  and  its  man- 
ifestation. But  will  the  lovoof  it  which  bears  him 
on  so  serenely  in  the  closet,  and  in  his  silent  in- 
quiries and  observation, — will  this  rise  to  an  ad- 
equate iieight  to  make  him  the  suffering  witness 
in  behalf  of  that  truth  to  others?  How  many  of 
the  amiable  and  distinguished  votaries  of  Science, 
to  whom  she  has  unfolded  her  choicest  arcana, 
and  laid  bare  her  richest  gems,  have,  with  cow- 
ardly timidity  quailed  before  the  array  of  deter- 


THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  TOLYCARP. 


mined  opposition  !  Galileo  could  demonstrate 
the  revolution  of  the  earth  ;  but  he  could  not,  or 
did  not,  bear  an  unhesitating  testimony  to  this 
truth,  when  prejudice  backed  by  power  demand- 
ed his  recantation.  Nor  does  this  case  of  mental 
or  moral  imbecility  stand  alone  in  its  class. 
Under  similar  severity  of  trial,  it  would  probably 
be  the  rule,  rather  than  the  exception.  Indeed 
it  may  reasonably  be  doubted,  whether  abstract 
scientific  truth,  unconnected  with  the  moral  na- 
ture of  man,  has  power  or  adaptedness  to  elicit,  and 
attract  to  itself  such  a  degree  of  benevolence,  as 
the  martyr  spirit  requires. 

Statesmen  may  give  proof  of  decided  sagacity ; 
their  plans  of  government  and  their  codes  of  laws 
may  indicate  vast  and  profound  researches  after 
truth,  in  the  science  of  government,  and  high  ap- 
preciation of  its  worth.  But  how  few  of  them 
have  been  willing  to  leave  their  own  testimony 
of  suffering,  to  carry  conviction  to  the  minds  of 
those  for  whom  they  legislate,  of  their  own  love, 
ardent,  strong,  immovable,  for  "  the  useful,  and 


the  beautiful,"  which  their  own  codes  and  con- 
stitutions evince !  True,  there  have  been  patriots, 
who,  for  their  country's  cause,  to  promote  in  some 
way  its  welfare,  have  nobly  given  themselves  up 
to  death.  But  the  number  of  such,  especially  of 
those  who  have  done  it  in  a  spirit  allied  to  mar- 
tyrdom, is  exceedingly  small.  For,  assuredly,  by 
no  fair  construction,  can  we  include  in  this  number 
those  who  take  arms  of  offence,  and  wield  them 
for  the  destruction  of  their  fellow  men.  Hopes 
of  personal  success,  and  of  consequent  domina- 
tion, the  spirit  of  self-aggrandizement,  and  in  fine, 
the  low,  base  aims  of  mercenary  warfare,  are 
generally  the  preponderating  elements  in  the 
character  of  your  fighting  patriots.  The  true 
martyr  never  dies  with  arms  in  his  hand,  for  the 
plain  reason,  that  the  most  successful  battle  can 
never  settle  a  disputed  matter  of  ri2;ht.  As  New- 
ton said  of  a  fine  poem,  "it  proves  nothing."  Nor 
can  it  be  made  to  occupy  the  place  of  testimony 
for  the  truth. 


ROSABEL 


ST      WILLIAM      GLAND      BOUBNE 


My  Ito=abel  was  bright  and  fair, 

How  bright  and  fair  was  she  ! 
An  angel  was  my  Rosabel, 

An  angel  fair  to  me  I 

Her  eye  was  like  a  fount  of  light 

That  in  the  azure  shone, 
So  clear  and  blue,  I  fondly  dreamed 

Of  light  when  she  was  gone. 

Her  golden  ringlets  fell  in  waves 

Of  gently  moving  curls, 
While  ruby  lips  but  half  concealed 

A  queenly  set  of  pearls. 
Her  voice  was  like  a  wind-touched  harp, 

Hung  'mid  the  perfumed  flowers. 
When  golden  eve's  soft  whispering  breeze 

Makes  melody  for  hours. 

She  had  a  light  and  airy  step, 
And  moved  with  matchless  grace, 

Her  footsteps  on  the  gossamer 
Would  scarcely  leave  a  trace. 

She  seemed  to  all  as  e'er  to  me, 

A  gentle,  meek-eyed  dove. 
Whose  hand  with  lustrous  jewels  shone — 

The  pearly  deeds  of  love. 

Her  heart  was  pure  as  morning  lighS, 

A  gushing,  sparkling  spring, 
"Where  dwelt  a  spirit  musical. 

That  never  ceased  to  sing. 

And  1,  in  many  a  sleeping  hour, 

And  many  a  waking  dream, 
Have  tinted  pictures  of  my  joy 

That  still  unfading  seem. 


!My  Rosabel  was  bright  and  fair, 
How  bright  and  fair  was  she  ! 

An  angel  was  my  Rosabel, 
An  angel  fair  to  me. 

But  such  too  early  pass  away. 

They  seem  not  long  for  earth  ; 
They  fade,  and  find  a  purer  home. 

In  climes  where  they  have  birth. 
When  first  we  saw  the  paling  cheek. 

And  watched  her  changing  eye, 
We  could  not  make  our  hearts  believe 

That  Rosabel  could  die. 

And  I — jMo  !  let  the  secret  keep 

Its  sorrow  in  my  breast ; 
I  could  not  think  that  we  must  part 

When  she  lay  down  to  rest. 

She  passed  as  autumn  passed  away, 

And  faded  like  a  flower, 
To  leave  my  heart  as  desolate 

As  our  own  cherished  bower. 

Her  lovely  spirit  passed  away, 

To  heaven's  unsighing  sphere, 
And  left  me  sorrowing,  here  to  wait 

My  sadly  closing  year. 
And  when  I  think  of  Rosabel, 

My  pictures  come  again. 
So  filled  with  life,  I  think  I  see 

And  hear  her  now,  as  then. 
How  bright  and  fair  is  Rosabel .' 

How  bright  and  fair  is  she  ! 
An  angel  is  my  Rosabel — 

In  heaven  she  waits  for  me. 


ONE    OF    THE    GRACES. 


"The  greatest  of  these  is  Charity.' 


"  Please,  cook,"'  saiJ  Mrs.  Fleming's  house  naid, 
as  she  entered  the  kitchen  with  the  tea-things, 
"Miss  Marion  wishes  you  to  boil  some  calves- 
foot  jelly  to-night  for  poor  Mrs.  Eastlake.  Mis- 
tress saitl  you  might,  and  you  are  to  get  a  calves' 
foot  directly." 

Such  a  rattle  and  clatter  of  fire-irons  ensued  on 
the  issue  of  this  mandate,  that  there  was  no  doubt 
in  the  world  what  view  cook  took  of  the  matter; 
and  when  the  rattle  and  clatter  of  the  tongs,  <fec., 
had  subsided,  there  began  a  scarely  more  plea- 
sant sound,  the  noise  of  an  angrv  woman's  tongue. 

".I  go  and  get  a  calves'  foot !  not  I.  I  boil 
calves'-foot  jelly  at  this  time  of  night!  Miss 
Marion  must  be  crazy.  Well,  for  ray  part,  I 
think  charity  should  begin  at  home.  There's  no 
charity  to  me  in  ordering  me  to  slave  here  after 
jelly  when  my  day's  work  has  been  hard  enough." 

"  Cook,  the  woman  is  very  bad,  and  she  longs 
so  for  jelly,  and  to  be  sure  you  are  too  kind- 
hearted  to  make  a  trouble  of  making  it,"  said  the 
milder-spirited  housemaid. 

"  I  shan't  go  for  the  foot  at  any  rate,  and  the 
boy  is  gone,  so  how  the  jelly  is  to  be  made,  I 
don't  see,"'  said  cook,  who  accordingly  sate  herself 
down  resolutely  to  mend  her  stockings. 

A  pale,  gentle-looking  girl  was  the  witness  of 
this  scene,  and  a  very  observant  witness  too. 
She  was  a  dress- maker,  and  had  just  come  to  re- 
ceive some  new  spring  dresses  from  tiie  Misses 
Fleming,  with  orders  to  finish  them,  without  fail, 
by  Saturday  night.  It  was  now  Wednesday  eve- 
ning; the  dresses,  three  in  number,  were  to  be 
flounced  nearly  to  the  waist;  but  young  ladies 
who  are  very  charitable  in  broth  making  and 
almsgiving,  sometimes  forget  that  dress-makers' 
eyes  ache,  and  that  their  backs  grow  weary,  and 
that,  in  fact,  tliey  are  the  veriest  slaves  tliat  toil 
for  their  hard-earned  bread ;  but  let  them  pass. 
Kate  Hall  was  sitting  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes 
before  commencing  her  walk  homewards,  when 
the  conversation  just  recorded  took  place. 

"Did  you  say  that  poor  M rs.  Eastla ke  was  ill  ?" 
said  Kate  to  the  housemaid.  "Dear  me,  and 
those  little  children !  What  is  it  tliat  is  the  mat- 
ter with  her  ?" 

"Why,  she  got  about  too  soon  after  her  confine- 
ment," said  the  housemaid,  "took  cold,  and  neg- 


lected it,  and  now  she  has  had  inflammation  of 
the  lungs,  and  lias  been  given  over;  but  to-day 
she  is  a  little  better,  and  the  doctor  has  given 
her  leave  to  iiave  some  jelly,  and  the  young  la- 
dies, when  they  were  out  visiting  their  district 
to-day  saw  her,  and  came  home  and  gave  orders 
about  the  jelly,  as  I  told  cook.  Poor  creatures, 
it  is  so  melancholy  to  see  the  three  little  children, 
one  a  baby  too,  with  no  one,  as  we  may  say,  to 
look  after  them.  I  went  tliere  yesterday,  and  it 
was  quite  heart-breaking." 

All  this  time  cook  was  industriously  darning, 
but  showed  no  signs  of  going  to  the  butcher's  for 
the  foot,  and  as  the  housemaid  could  not  be  spared, 
because  tliere  were  visitors,  Kate  considered,  and 
considered  truly,  that  Mrs.  Eastlake  stood  a  poor 
chance  of  her  jelly.  Hastily,  therefore,  bidding 
the  servants  good  night,  the  young  dress-maker 
departed.  Slie  did  not  leave  her  bundle  of  mus- 
lin, for  her  mind  w^as  not  quite  made  up.  She, 
therefore,  toiled  iill  the  way  up  the  long  hill 
which  led  from  the  Flemings'  door  with  her 
troublesome  burden  of  dresses,  and  she  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  awhile  hesitating  whether  to 
take  the  turn  which  led  to  her  home,  or  to  go  to 
the  butcher's  for  the  calves'  feet.  She  was  not 
very  strong — few  dressmakers'  girls  are — but 
she  thought  of  those  weaker  and  more  suffering 
than  herself,  and  the  resolution  was  taken.  To 
the  butcher's  she  went.  The  butcher  stood  at  his 
door  enjoying  tiie  haling  air  of  the  summer's  eve- 
ning, and  amusing  himself  with  the  gossip  and 
the  talk  of  the  busy  village  street.  Business 
was  over,  and  he  did  not  look  particularly  ami- 
able at  iiaving  to  turn  in  for  the  foot.  However, 
on  hearing  it  was  for  Mrs.  Fleming,  he  rather 
changed  his  tone,  and  presented  it  to  Kate,  as 
butchers  usually  present  meat,  without  any  paper 
or  wrapping  whatever. 

"  Can  you  send  it  ? "  said  Kate,  kindly ;  "  I  am 
not  going  back." 

"Can't  send  it  to-night,"  said  the  butcher,  "can't 
indeed.  My  boy  is  gone  home,  and  my  man  and 
the  horse  ore  out.  You  had  best  take  it,  young 
woman,  if  tliey  want  it  to-night." 

So  poor  Kate  had  to  go  and  leave  her  bundle 
down  at  the  baker's,  an  acquaintance  of  hers,  and 
to  borrow  a  little  basket  of  the  baker's  wife,  and 


222 


OlfE  OF  THE   GRACES. 


then  to  toil  back  again  to  Mr.  Fleming's  house, 
weary  and  hot  and  breathless,  just  as  the  cook, 
with  a  face  as  hot  as  her  own,  though  from 
another  cause,  was  proceeding  on  the  errand  her- 
self. Cook,  although  irascible,  was  not  bad- 
liearted,  and  she  thanked  her  very  warmly.  The 
circumstance  was  related  to  the  young  ladies  by 
the  housemaid,  and  a  few  commendations  were 
bestowed  on  "the  obliging  girl."  Thus  they 
termed  her  self-denying  act  of  charity.  Yes, 
charity  !  Tiiink  you  that  the  recording  angel  set 
down  the  Misses  Flemings  gift,  which  cost  them 
nothing  but  an  easily-spared  coin,  under  the  head 
of  charity,  and  took  no  note  of  the  self-denial  of 
the  young  dressmaker,  in  an  act  for  which  she 
neither  received  nor  expected  human  applause  ? 

The  jelly  went  to  IVlrs.  Eastlake  the  next 
morning.  The  ladies'  charity  and  goodness  were 
extolled  by  the  neighors.  Kate  sate  at  her  dress- 
making, and  thought.  Of  what  did  she  think  ? 
— that  pale,  industrious  Uttle  creature.  Not  of  the 
gay  colors  of  the  lilac  muslin  with  a  wish  that 
she  owned  sach  a  dress ;  not  of  the  money  which 
she  was  to  receive,  and  which  should  buy  her 
something  almost  as  good,  and,  made  in  the  same 
fashion,  would  look  quite  as  pretty.  Oh  no,  Kate 
was  not  thinking  of  herself;  she  was  remember- 
ing the  poor  mother  on  her  sick  bed,  and  revolv- 
ing in  her  mind  some  means  to  help  her.  She 
did  not  know  much  of  Mrs.  Eastlake,  but  she 
was  her  fellow-creature,  she  was  in  sickness  and 
necessity,  and  that  was  quite  enough  for  Kate. 
Kate  Hall  had  heard  a  sermon  on  charity  a  few 
Sundays  before  (and  so  had  the  Misses  Fleming 
by-the-by),  which  very  much  impressed  her. 
She  thought  then,  as  she  looked  on  the  minister, 
with  her  blue,  earnest,  thoughtful  eyes.  "Ah,  if/ 
could  but  be  charitable!  but  I  am  a  poor  girl.  I 
can't  give  away  money,  and  /  have  no  time  to 
visit  sick  people.  I  cannot  be  charitable."  Soon, 
however,  she  thought  differently  as  he  expounded 
the  true  meaning  of  the  words,  and  she  began  to 
liope  that  in  some  respect  she  might  be  an  imi- 
tation, though  an  humble  one,  of  Him  who  was 
kind  and  good  to  all. 

Kate  really  loved  the  Saviour,  I  should  tell  you, 
and  thus  she  was  prepared  to  exercise  that  char- 
ity which  never  faileth,  which  hopeth  all  things, 
believeth  all  things,  endureth  all  tliings.  One 
remark  of  the  preacher's  struck  her  very  much — 
I  am  not  sure  that  the  Misses  Fleming  heard  it; 
Kate  did,  I  know — that  true  charily  never  exist- 
ed where  there  was  no  self-denial.  Charity,  does 
not  consist  in  almsgiving  merely.  The  Christian 
charity  of  which  the  apostle  speaks,  has  a  far 
wider,  nobler  meaning.  It  does  not  necessarily 
require  any  self-denial  to  give  money  to  a  socie- 


ty, or  to  relieve  the  necessities  of  a  poor  neighbor. 
There  may  be  much  money  given,  and  little  char- 
ity in  such  ways,  but  it  sometimes  requires  con- 
siderable self  denial  to  withhold  an  unkind  or  a 
slanderous  suggestion  about  another,  and  truly  it 
demands  much  of  the  spirit  of  Christ  to  hope  all 
things,  and  to  believe  all  things.  Where  can  we 
find  morality  so  pure  and  elevated  as  that  of  the 
gospel  of  Jesus  Christ  ? 

As  Kate  sat  sewing,  a  thought  came  into  her 
heart  that  she  could  help  Mrs.  Eastlake — she 
would  at  all  events  try;  and  so  her  nimble  fin- 
gers worked  away,  and  she  felt  as  bright  and 
happy  as  only  good  charitable  thoughts  can  make 
us.  How  the  Misses  Fleming  would  have  laugh- 
ed to  hear  Kate,  the  dress-maker  that  they  pat- 
ronized, called  charitable  ;  she  that  only  earned 
enough  by  her  hard  labor  to  supply  the  wants 
of  herself  and  a  crippled  sister,  with  whom,  and 
the  God  she  loved,  she  was  left  alone  in  a  world 
that  had  not  dealt  very  kindly  with  them.  She 
had  only  lately  set  up  as  dress-maker  for  herself. 
When  her  mother  died  a  few  months  previously, 
she  found  that  she  could  no  longer  retain  her  sit- 
uation at  Mrs.  Tavenor's,  the  principal  dress- 
maker of  the  little  country  town,  and,  therefore, 
resolved  to  trust  to  her  own  exertions  at  home 
for  a  scanty  maintenance,  and  to  nurse  and  tend 
her  dear  sister  Bertha. 

The  love  of  those  two  sisters  was  enough  to 
make  a  paradise,  even  of  their  little  lodging. 
The  poor  feeble  cripple,  who  had  lain  five  years, 
suffering  under  a  hopeless  spinal  disease,  just  able 
to  do  a  little  of  the  lightest  of  the  sewing  if 
Kate  were  very  busy,  was  a  kind,  happy 
Christian.  Kate  had  lately,  very  lately,  begun  to 
follow  in  her  sister's  footsteps,  and  now  they  were 
going  hand  in  hand  to  heaven.  She  that  was  so 
weak  and  frail  in  body,  that  she  needed  to  be  lifted 
daily  from  her  bed  to  her  couch,  was  the  strong, 
hopeful  christian,  and  the  counsellor  and  strength 
of  her  darling  sister,  Kate. 

And  now  you  must  fancy  Bertha  as  she  lay 
watching  her  industrious  sister.  She  often  watch- 
ed her,  but  the  quick  eye  of  her  love — (Bertha's 
sickness  had  not  made  her  selfish) — the  quick 
eye  of  her  watchful  love  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing on  Kate's  mind 

"  Kate,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ? "  Kate 
started. 

"Of poor  Mrs.  Eastlake." 

"  Are  you  ?  and  so  have  I  been  thinking  of  her 
ever  since  daylight,  Kate.  Don't  you  think,  dear, 
we  might  help  her  ?" 

"  Sure  enough,  Bertha,  my  darling,  I  long  to 
help  her;  but  see  my  work, how  can  I  be  spared  ? 
Here  are  all  these  dresses  to  finish  by  Saturday, 


ONE  OF  THE   GRACES. 


223 


"  But  could  we  not  do  without  the   money, 
Katy  ? " 
Kate  lauglied. 

"  Well,  Bertha,  we  very  likely   mii^t  do  with- 
out the  money  whether  I  take  the  dresses  home 
or  no  ;  but  the  Misses  Fleming  won't  do  without 
their  dresses,  I  fear." 
Bertha  paused. 

"  Yet  the  Misses  Fleming  are  such  good  young 
ladies,  go  about  so  much  among  the  poor  ;  surely 
they  would  wait ;  and  I  have  set  my  mind,  Kate, 
on  your  running  over  to  see  this  poor  woman. 
She  has  a  thoughtless  husband,  I  know  ;  she  is 
almost  a  stranger  here,  too,  and  has  no  friends  ; 
so  do,  dear  sister,  leave  your  work ;  there,  I  can 
pipe  that  flounce ;  run  off  dear,  do  ;  I.  want  noth- 
ing ;  go,  there's  a  dear  sister." 

Kate's  bonnet  was  soon  on.  "  The  running 
over  "  was  literally  more  than  half  a  mile,  for 
Mrs  Eastlake  lived  at  the  extreme  end  of  the 
village.     She  had  only  lately  come   to   settle  in 

S ,  where  her  husband,   a  thoughtless,   and 

some  said,  an  idle  man,  had  obtained  a  situation 
as  gardener.  They  were  not  so  very  poor  as  they 
were  friendless.  Mrs.  Eastlake  had  known  bet- 
ter days,  and  passed  with  her  bad  neighbors  as 
"  very  high."  Be  that  as  it  may,  she  found,  that 
on  a  b^ick  bed, she  had  no  one  to  come  and  smooth 
her  pillow  for  loves  sake  ;  and,  oh,  what  worse 
desolation  can  there  be  ? 

The  Misses  Fleming  having  heard  of  her  sick- 
ness had  visited  her  very  kindly,  had  given  her 
plenty  of  advice,  such  as  to  put  out  her  children 
to  nurse,  which  would  have  been  all  very  well, 
only,  that  putting  children  out  to  nurse  costs 
money,  and  Mrs.  Eastlake  had  but  little  money. 
They  told  her  she  ought  to  have  a  regular  nurse, 
and  not  to  depend  on  the  litte  ignorant  servant 
girl.  Good  advice  too,  but  money,  money  again. 
An  old  lady,  a  neighbor,  had  come  in  as  fre- 
quently in  the  course  of  the  day  as  she  was  able, 
and  the  girl  of  sixteen  did  as  well  as  girls  of  six- 
teen usually  do,  but  that  was  only  moderately,  it 
must  be  confessed.  The  Misses  Fleming  talked 
a  great  deal,  but,  with  the  exception  of  sending 
tlie  jelly,  did  very  little.  Tlie  case  was  rather 
puzzling  to  them:  money  was  not  so  much 
wanted  as  help,  such  as  they  could  not  or  did  not 
render. 

Charity  is  not  a  loquacious  virtue  by  any 
means.  It  is  a  quiet  but  active,  thouglitful  but 
effective  angel.  It  was  nearer  Mrs.  Eastlake's 
pillow  than  she  imagined  when  Kate,  the  poor 
dressmaker,  stepped  in.  She  had  no  money  in 
her  purse;  no  jelly,  nor  blanc-mange,  nor  wine  m 
her  basket,  but  she  had  kindness  in  her  voice, 
love  in  her  expression,  selfdenial  and  benevo- 


lence in  her  heart,  as  she  entered  Mrs.  Eastlake's 
cottage.  Two  little  children  were  playing  in  the 
garden,  unwashed,  uncombed,  fretful,  and  quar- 
relling ;  the  baby  of  about  two  months  old  lay 
in  its  cradle,  breatliing  hard,  in  one  of  those 
heavy  slumbers,  obtained  as  the  slumbers  of 
poor  people's  children  too  often  are,  by  sleeping 
drugs. 

Jane,  the   servant-maid,  with    her    hair    all 
streaming  down  behind,  and  twisted  up  in  curl- 
papers before,  was  cooking,  or  trying  to  cook,  at 
the  dirty  dusty  grate.    The  husband  was  out   at 
work,   and   Kate's   visit   was   most    seasonable. 
There  was  no  occasion  for  ceremony ;  Mrs.  East- 
lake  saw  in  a  moment  that  Kate's  motive  in 
coming  to  see  her  was  one  of  true  charity,  not  of 
common  curiosity,  and  from  that  moment  they 
were    not    strangers.     Kate  now  proceeded   to 
smooth  the  pillows,  to  lay  the  miserable  dirty 
covering  straight,  and  resolved  in  her  mind  that 
she  would  bring  a  pair  of  her  own  coarse  clean 
sheets  that   night.     She   then  sponged   the  suf- 
ferer's face  with   warm    water,  all   noiselessly, 
quietly  (Kate  had  had  sad  experience  in  sick- 
nursing),  and  after  making  the  room  as  tidy  as 
she  could  in  a  first  visit,  without  appearing  to 
take  liberties,  she  went  down  stairs  and  spoke  to 
the  children.     They  were  more  difficult  to  set  to 
rights  than   the  sick-room.    However,  she   told 
the  maid  to  wash  the  two  elder,  and  this  being* 
after  considerable  screaming,  accomplished,  she 
asked  the  poor  mother's  permission  to  take  them 
home  with  her  for  a  few  hours.  Now,  mark,  there 
was  more  of  the  principle  of  true  charity  here» 
than  in  going  without  a  meal.     Kate  did  not  feel 
disposed  to  take  charge  of  two  turbulent  children 
under  five  years   of  age.     She   had   her   fears, 
moreover,  that   they  might  annoy  her  precious 
Bertha  ;  but  she  saw  that  this  was  likely  to  re- 
lieve the  mother  more  materially  than  anything 
else,  and  accordingly  she  did  it.     It  was  now  two 
o'clock,  and  she  dare  not  stay,  she  said,  for  fear 
Bertha  should  want  anything ;  so  taking  the  two 
little  creatures  by   the  hand,  who  were  pleased 
enough  with  the  change,  they  proceeded  home- 
wards. 

It  seemed  almost  a  hopeless  task  to  help  Mrs. 
Eastlake,  so  at  least  thought  Kate,  as  she  toiled 
this  hot  summer  afternoon  up  the  weary  hill, 
which  led  to  their  humble  lodging. 

Bertha  had  wanted  nothing,  ehe  said,  but  she 
looked  pale  with  her  exertion  in  sewing,  and 
Kate  felt  condemned  for  bringing  the  children ; 
but  Bertlia  loved  little  children.  Most  good, 
gentle,  Christ-like  persons  do.  How  can  we  look 
coldly  on  those  whom  the  Saviour  blessed  ?  So 
whilst  Kate  got  the  diimer  ready — and  there  was 


224 


ONE    OF   THE    GRACES. 


not  much  preparation  in  that — Bertha  called  the 
little  ones  to  her  couch,  and  amused  them 
by  stories,  and  then  by  letting  them  have  the 
gay  snips  of  the  lilac  muslin  to  play  with,  and 
the  pincushion  to  fill  with  pins,  which  ke'pt  them 
quite  amused,  and  Kate  never  admired  her  sick 
sister  more  in  her  life  than  now.  An  -unselfish 
invalid  is  a  beautiful  and  an  admirable  rarity. 
Bertha  was  such  an  one. 

Kate  was  a  little  anxious,  a  little  flurried,  and 
Bertha  had  again  to  cheer  her. 

"What  now,  Katy  dear?  Be  quick  and  dine, 
and  you  shall  sew  very  hard,  and  I  will  amuse 
the  children,  and  then  you  will  have  time  before 
night  to  run  over,  and  make  Mrs.  Eastlake  com- 
fortable for  the  night." 

"  But  the  dresses,  Bertha  ?" 

At  this  moment,  Miss  Fleming  came  in. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Hall,  I  only  called  to  say,  I  hope 
you  won't  fail  to  let  us  have  our  dresses  on 
Saturday  night,  in  pood  time.  We  thcrught  you 
seemed  rather  doubtful.'" 

"Indeed,  Miss  Fleming,  I  am,"  said  Kate. 
"  I  don't  like  to  promise  if  I  have  any  doubt, 
and  I  do  fear  I  shall  not  get  them  all  done.  Those 
flounces.  Miss,  take  so  much  time." 

"  But  we  must  have  them,"  said  Miss  Fleming, 
■with  rather  more  asperity  than  exactly  became  a 
"sister  of  charity."  "  If  you  cannot  undertake 
them,  I  must  take  one  of  them  to  Mrs.  Tavenor," 
but,  remembering  Mrs.  Tavenor's  high  charges, 
she  added,  "  Oh,  I  shall  quite  expect  them." 

"  Miss  Fleming,"  said  Bertha  kindly,  "  could 
you  not  give  us  until  Tuesday  ?  They  shall  be 
finished  well,  and  certainly  by  that  time,  but  I 
do  not  think  it  is  possible  to  get  them  done  before 
unless  we  get  assistance,  and  that,  you  know," 
here  Bertha  blushed,  "  takes  from  our  profit.  We 
could  not  make  you  dresses  at  the  price  we  do 
if  we  hired  help." 

Miss  Fleming,  however,  was  obdurate,  and 
Kate  therefore  gave  the  reluctant  promise. 

The  children  were  taken  home  at  seven,  happy 
and  clean.  The  clean  sheets  were  on  the  suffer- 
er's bed;  the  poor  baby  taken  to  a  married  friend 
of  Kate's,  a  poor  woman,  but  a  kind  one,  who  gave 
the  little  pining,  exhausted  creature,  tiie  food  it 
needed  from  her  own  motherly  bosom. 

"I  will  keep  it  for  the  night,  Kate,"  she  said, 
as  she  saw  how  the  babe  had  nestled  down  and 
slept.  "  It  is  only  the  same  as  having  twins  for 
a  while,  John,"  said  she  to  the  husband,  who  look- 
ed a  little  anxious,  not  grudgingly,  but  he  feared 
for  the  fatigue  of  his  young  wife. 

The  warm  bath  and  the  motherly  touch,  and 
careful  tender  treatment,  told  on  the  infant  before 
long,  and  Kate  ran  with  the  good  news  to  Mrs. 


Eastlake,  that  baby  was  fast  asleep  at  one  end  of 
the  cradle,  and  her  friend's  little  Fanny  at  the 
other.  Mrs.  Eastlake  slept  better  that  night  than 
for  many  a  preceding  one. 

"It  is  twelve  o'clock,  Katy  dear,"  called  Bertha 
from  her  little  room  ;  "come,  come  to  bed." 

"  Not  yet,  Bertha.  It  is  only  by  sitting  up  all 
night  that  I  can  finish  my  work  by  any  possibility. 
Go  you  to  sleep,  dear,  for  what  shall  I  do,  Bertha, 
if  you  are  worse  ?" 

Morning  dawned,  and  still  the  young  girl  sat 
and  sewed.  The  Misses  Fleming  slept ;  and  the 
next  day  they  were  out  again,  blithe,  healthy,  and 
refreshed,  visiting  their  sick  poor  district  as  usual, 
and  passing  for  young  ladies  who  did  a  great 
deal  of  good. 

Now  it  is  a  question  whether  this  visiting  of  the 
poor  involved  any  self-denial  with  the  Misses 
Fleming.  To  be  sure,  if  the  cottages  were  very 
dirty,  they  soon  bustled  out,  and  bought  a  bottle 
of  lavender  water  of  the  chemist  without  delay; 
but  there  was  little  very  squalid  poverty  that 
came  under  their  notice ;  and  if  the  day  were  fine 
(when  it  was  very  wet  they  did  not  go  out),  it 
was  rather  a  pleasant  occupation  for  them  twice 
a  week.  Do  not  misunderstand  me;  I  would  not 
detract  from  the  advantage  and  propriety  of  such 
efforts  amongst  the  poor;  but  I  want  you  to  see 
how  far  we  may  perform  such  acts  in  the  sight  of 
men,  and  yet  in  the  sight  of  God  we  may  be 
verily  wanting.  The  Misses  Fleming  could  not 
know  that  Kate  would  have  to  sit  up  all  night 
long  to  work  at  dresses,  without  which  they 
could  have  done  perfectly  well.  But  why  did 
they  not?  Ignorance  in  such  a  case  was  a  sini 
because  they  might  have  known.  Who  that 
looks  on  a  fasJiionably-made  dress  but  must 
know  that  the  work  which  it  contains  has  cost 
close,  hard  labor;  and  that  to  press  for  an  arti- 
cle of  apparel  within  a  given  time,  just  to 
gratify  a  wliim  of  vanity,  is  barbarous  cruelty. 
It  is  a  fault  of  heart,  believe  me — a  want  of  kind 
consideration  and  charity,  for  which  no  alms  giving 
in  the  world  can  atone  in  His  sight  whose  stand- 
ard of  love  is,  "  that  ye  love  one  another  as  I 
have  loved  you."  Oh,  for  more  of  that  charity 
which  never  faileth ;  which,  amongst  the  "  all 
things"  that  it  endureth,  is  content  to  deny  itself 
for  another's  self! 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Eastlake,  how  nice  and  comfort- 
able you  look  this  morning,"  said  the  Misses  Flem- 
ing, as  they  entered  the  sick-room  where  the 
weary  girl  had  already  been;  "you  have  got  a 
nurse  at  last,  I  liope." 

"  I  have  indeed,  Miss,  but  a  nurse  who  comes 
for  love,  not  for  pay."' 

"  Who  r 


ONE   OF  THE   GRACES. 


226 


"  Kate  Hall,  Miss  Fleming." 

"Kate  Hall,  our  dressmaker  !  I  did  not  know 
you  knew  her." 

"  I  did  not.  Miss,  but  I  know  lier  now.  She 
came  all  of  her  own  free  will,  twice  yesterday, 
and  again  to-day  ;  got  a  friend  of  hers  to  take  my 
poor  baby  ;  kept  the  children  all  day  yesterday. 
Oh  you  don't  know  what  she  has   done  for  me  !" 

The  jMisses  Fleming  were  young  ;  they  knew 
but  little  of  human  nature,  and  it  seemed  to 
them  that  Mrs.  Eastlake's  gratitude  almost 
exceeded  the  obligation  ;  but  they  did  not  say  so. 

Saturday  night  came,  and  at  eight  o'clock  a 
ring  a.t  the  bell  animated  the  young  ladies,  one 
and  all.  Mary  Anne,  the  housemaid,  entered  with 
the  dresses.  They  were  fitted  at  once,  and  pro- 
nounced to  '•  set  admirably."  Mary  Anne  still 
waited. 

"  Miss  Hall  hopes,  Mi.ss,  you  will  excuse  her  for 
asking  you  to  pay  her  to-night,  but  she  would  be 
very  thankful  for  the  money." 

"  We  will  call  and  pay  her  on  Monday,"  said 
Miss  Marion  ;  "  she  can't  do  anything  with  the 
money  on  Sunday,  I  suppose." 

Kate  had  to  struggle  for  a  few  moments,  but 
charity  triumphed,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that 
this  was  the  noblest  triumph  of  all.  The  "char- 
ity that  never  faileth"  was  that  cherished  by  the 
Halls.  Poor  Mrs.  Eastlake's  illness  was  lingering 
and  trying  enough  to  test  any  impulsive  or  litful 
kindness.  The  Misses  Fleming  sent  wine  and  jelly 
now  and  then,  but  their  visits  were  less  frequent. 
She  did  not  seem  to  care  for  tliem,  they  said,  and 
there  was  no  doing  any  thing  to  help  her,  poor 
thing !  Kate  thought  otherwise ;  often  would  she 
take  her  work,  and  sit  by  the  lonely  bed-side, 
dieering  her  with  pleasant  tones  and  hopeful 
words,  correcting  her  errors,  and  often  reading  to 
her  in  her  long-neglected  Bible,  till  at  length  the 
poor  creature's  heart  was  opened,  and  she  under- 
stood the  Scriptures,  and  received  the  word  with 
joy.  But  she  faded  with  the  autumn  leaves,  and 
scarcely  had  her  new  life  begun  on  earth  than  she 
was  taken  from  tlie  evil  to  come  into  the  safety 
and  blessedness  of  heaven.  Who  shall  say  that 
Kate's  mission  wa.'<  a  tiny  one  ? 

The  hour  is  twilight,  the  autumn  mist  is  chill- 
ing, and  few  persons  are  abroad — few  but  those 
who,  like  the  little  dressmaker,  have  to  toil  for 
their  daily  bread.  She  has  just  left  the  Fleming's 
house  with  her  load  of  dresses  to  alter,  and  to 
make,  and  to  modernize,  and  is  thinking  of  a 
happy  evening  with  her  dear  Bertha,  and  the  book 
that  Bertha  is  to  read,  when  she  feels  her  dress 
pulled,  and  looking  round  sees  the  face  of  an  old 
acquaintince,  but  so  altered,  so  haggard,  that  until 
she  speaks  she  does  not  fully  recognise  her.    It 


WIS  Anne,  an  old  companion  of  hers  atMrs.  Tav- 
enor's,who  had  left  her  employer  two  years  before 
to  take  a  situation  as  lady's  maid,  and  of  whom 
Kate  had  heard  a  very  moderate  account,  so  much 
so  that  she  shrank  from  her. 

"  Do  not  shrink  from  me,  Kate,  it  is  my  only 
hope.  I  am  come  to  you,  the  best  friend  1  ever 
had.  I  am  humble  now;  I  am,  indeed.  I  have 
no  character,  no  home,  no  friends  but  you  and 
Bertha.  Give  me  a  hearing  to-night,  Kate  Hall, 
and  tiie  blessing  of  her  who  is  ready  to  perish  will 
sound  in  your  ears." 

Poor  Kate !  slie  still  shrank  and  hurried  on  ; 
but  Anne  followed  with  all  the  desperation  of 
her  sorrow,  and  they  reached  the  lodgings.  Hap- 
pily, the  landlady,  a  very  good  sort  of  woman,  (so 
called),  but  of  a  very  hard  kind  of  goodness,  was 
out,  and  Anne  pressed  eagerly  in,  and  was  soon 
in  the  little  parlor.  Bertha,  whose  face  was  not 
to  the  door,  was  hearing  little  Susy  Eastlake  say 
her  evening  prayer, before  sending  her  home  with 
the  kind  woman,  who,  it  may  be  recollected,  took 
care  of  the  infant,  and  who  now  took  charge  of 
the  three  motherless  children.  They  stood  stil^ 
to  listen  ;  Bertha  looked,  as  she  always  did,  calm, 
placid,  and  happy,  but  paler  than  usual  by  the 
lighted  fire,  and  the  little  light-haired  girl  who 
knelt  by  her  couch  was  just  saying  as  they  enter- 
ed, "Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive  them 
that  trespass  against  us."  Anne  sobbed  aloud, 
and  Bertha  looked  up. 

It  was  not  a  strange  tale,  that  of  the  poor,  home- 
less, motherless,  hopeless  girl.  It  was  a  sad 
story,  but,  alas!  not  an  uncommon  one.  Love  of 
dress  and  gayety  had,  in  the  first  instance,  induced 
Anne  Forster  to  leave  her  lionest  calling,  and  to 
take  the  tempting  situation  of  lady's  maid  in  a 
gay  and  worldly  family.  Her  conduct  there  had 
been  light  and  giddy.  She  had  made  bad  ac- 
quaintances— had  deceived  her  employer,  and 
was  at  length  dismissed  in  disgrace,  with  a 
general  charge  of  flighty  and  unbecoming  con- 
duct, quite  sufficient  to  prevent  her  obtaining  an- 
other situation.  And  now  she  was  come  to  her 
native  village,  with  a  faint  hope  that  those  who 
had  known  her  in  her  better  days  would  take 
compassion  on  her  now  ;  but  oh,  none  so  dis- 
believing in  her  profession  of  penitence  as  the  in- 
habitants of  S .     "  They  wondered  at  her 

thinking  of  such  a  tiling  as  that  they  should  re- 
commentl  her  !"  Mrs.  Tavenor  shut  the  door  in 
her  face  ;  Mrs.  Fleming's  housemaid  told  her 
not  to  dare  to  come  any  more  ;  she  had  heard 
enough  of  lier  doings.  And  it  was  only  Kate  of 
whom  she  had  any  hope — Kate  and  her  sister. 

The  two  sisters  beard  her  story.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  she  had  been  wrong,  giddy,  and  flighty, 


226 


BUNKER   HILL  AND   CALVARY. 


but  she  longed  to  alter ;  she  said  so,  at  least,  and 
their  charity  believed  it.  How  meekly  and  like 
a  child  she  listened  to  the  faithful  Bertha ;  and 
■with  folded  hands  and  an  humble  heart,  sate 
shrinking  from  Ihcm  now  as  one  unfit  to  approach 
those  pure  and  pious  women.  They  made  her  no 
promises,  but  thej'  did  not  spurn  her.  They  pro- 
cured her  a  bed  at  an  old  neighbor's,  and  spoke 
words  of  kindness  and  hope,  giving  her  the  gospel 
message  of  reconciliation,  you  may  be  sure — and 
then  they  knelt  down  and  prayed,  and  hoped  for 
Anne.    Theu-s  was  the  charity,  you  know,  that 


hopeth  all  things.  What  had  they  in  their  power 
to  do  for  this  poor  girl?  Not  much,  it  is  true, 
but  they  did  what  they  coukl.  They  gave  her 
employment — for  their  business  was  steadily  in- 
creasing, and  they  often  needed  help.  They  gave 
her  counsel  and  instruction,  and  encouraged  her 
by  a  little  judicious  notice  to  redeem  the  character 
for  steadiness  and  propriety  that  she  had  lost. 

Years  afterwards,  Mrs  Tavenor's  bu.siness  was 
taken  by  Kate  Hall,  and  the  best  assistant  in  her 
work-room  was  Anne,  the  all  but  lost  Anne. 

THE  GEEATEST    OF   THESE  IS  CHARITY. 


BUNKER    HILL    AND    CALVARY 


BY      EEV.     C.     G.     CLABKE 


BoNKEE  Hill  is  among  the  household  words  of 
Americans.  It  occupies  a  prpminent  place  among 
our  most  cherished  ideas.  Its  enunciation  wakes 
up  the  gushing  emotions  of  the  soul.  Nor  will 
it  cease  to  be  the  centre  of  precious  recollections, 
while  earth  rolls  and  patriotism  lives. 

It  is  right  and  proper  that  it  should  be  so;  for 
there  commenced  the  mighty  struggle  for  right — 
for  nationality.  The  painful  events,  which  there 
transpired,  were  harbingers  of  the  final  and  glo- 
rious results  of  the  conflict.  The  foundations  of 
our  national  temple — the  temple  of  liberty — were 
there  laid  and  cemented  with  blood.  Yes,  the 
choicest  blood  of  the  land  was  there  poured  out 
like  water.  The  sacrifice  for  freedom  and  right 
was  tliere  laid  upon  the  altar.  From  that  spot, 
and  from  that  fearful  hour,  sprang  into  existence 
a  nation — a  nation  destined  by  Heaven,  we  trust, 
to  do  more  for  the  renovation,  the  salvation,  of 
the  world,  than  any  other  on  the  footstool. 

Already  it  has  done  wonders,  in  opening  the 
eyes  of  the  masses,  long  under  the  crushing  heel 
of  despotism,  to  an  acquaintance  with  their 
rights.  It  will — it  must — do  more.  We  shall 
bear  the  torchlight  of  liberty,  and  the  more  pre- 
cious light  of  religion,  to  all  the  down-trodden 
and  benighted,  througliout  the  earth.  Surely, 
then,  Bunker  Hill  is  a  mighty  word. 

But  there  is  another  hill  more  blessed  than 


that.  Up  Calvary,  the  well-beloved  son  of  God 
toiled,  bearing  his  cross.  There  he  suffered  and 
groaned  and  died.  How  much  more  precious 
was  the  sacrifice,  there  offered  up,  than  the  other! 
The  sacrifice  was  laid  upon  the  altar  of  love — 
not  of  country  or  of  friends — but  of  enemies.  Nor 
was  it  offered  amid  the  thunder  and  havoc  of 
war,  but  the  more  fearful  rockings  of  earth,  the 
shakings  of  the  temple's  foundations,  and  the 
rending  of  its  veil.  There  the  powers  of  dark- 
ness were  defeated. 

Hence,  the  mighty  Conqueror  arose,  leading 
captivity  captive,  procuring  gifts  for  man.  There 
was  achieved  our  liberty ;  liberty  to  draw  nigh 
to  God ;  liberty  to  devote  ourselves  to  the  ser- 
vice of  Heaven ;  liberty  to  worship  our  Maker 
without  hinderance  or  restraint ;  liberty  to  hope. 
There  was  laid  a  sure  foundation,  on  which  rests 
the  temple  of  truth,  which  is  to  rise  glorious  and 
eternal — whose  top-stone  is  to  be  brought  forth 
in  heaven,  "with  shoutings  of  grace,  grace  unto 
it."  Wliat  rich  blessings  cluster  around  Cal- 
vary !  Rich  in  present  enjoyment — rich  in  fu- 
ture anticipations.  Yes,  the  story  of  Calvary  is 
to  be  told  on  every  hill-top  and  valley  of  earth. 
It  is  to  pour  consolation  into  myriads  of  souls,  in 
their  final  struggle— turning  "the  shadow  of 
death  into  the  morning."  It  will  be  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  eternal  song, 


MAN'S   EXTREMITY,   GOD'S   OPPOHTUNITY 


BT      REV.      JONATHAN      BRACE 


This  sentiment  has  become  a  proverb,  and  like 
most  proverbs,  is  founded  in  truth.  It  is  a.  fact 
that  divine  intervention  may  be  expected  in  be- 
half of  man,  and  more  especially  in  behalf  of  the 
frienda  of  God,  when  necessity  calls  for  it. 

"Just  in  the  last  distressing  hour 
The  Lord  displays  delivering  power ; 
The  mount  of  danger  is  the  place 
Where  we  shall  see  surprising  grace." 

Of  the  truth  of  this  familiar  apothegm,  it  is  not 
difficult  to  find  illustrations. 

Look  at  the  Israelites  in  Egypt.  They  were 
ground  down  by  oppression,  and  "  sighed  by  rea- 
son of  hard  bondage."  A  season  came,  however, 
when  the  cruelty  exercised  against  them  became 
extreme, — when  they  were  not  only  forced  to 
labor,  but  their  very  ofFijpring  were  doomed 
to  die.  When  this  season  came,  when  murder 
took  off  the  infants,  and  threatened  to  extirpate 
the  seed  through  whom  the  promised  Shiloh  was 
to  come, — then,  the  Lord  "showed  himself  to 
Moses  in  a  flame  of  fire  out  of  the  midst  of  a 
bush,"  and  commissioned  and  endowed  him  to  be 
the  triumphant  champion  of  bis  abused  people. 

The  Israelites  went  up  harnessed  out  of  Egypt. 
Pharaoh,  repenting  of  his  permission  to  let  them 
go,  "made  ready  his  cliariot,  took  six  hundred 
chosen  chariots,"  and  his  mighty  men  of  valor, 
and  followed  m  close  pursuit.  Nothing  however 
is  done  on  the  part  of  God,  till  there  seems  but 
a  step  between  his  people  and  destruction.  When 
they  had  reached  the  Red  Sea,  which  lay  as  an 
impassable  barrier  before  them,  when  mountains 
rugged  and  higli  prevented  their  escape  on  either 
side,  and  the  hosts  of  the  tyrant  thirsting  for 
blood  were  hard  upon  their  backs,  then  it 
was,  that  the  salvation  of  tlie  Lord  was  shown. 
"  And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Lift  up  thy  rod, 
and  stretch  out  thine  hand  over  the  sea  and  divide 
it,  and  the  children  of  Israel  shall  go  on  dry 
ground  through  the  midst  of  the  sea.  And  the 
Lord  said  again  unto  Moses,  Stretch  out  thine  hand 
over  the  sea,  that  the  waters  may  come  upon  the 
Egyptians,  upon  their  chariots  and  their  horses." 
And  he  did  so;  the  sea  returned  to  its  strength, 


overwhelming  all  the  hosts  of  Pharaoh,  so  that 
there  remained  not  so  much  as  one  of  them  ! 

Jehovah  had  declared  that  "  the  seed  of  the 
woman  should  bruise  the  serpent's  head."  His 
advent  was  looked  for  with  interest.  Types, 
shadows,  and  emblems,  prefigured  and  betokened 
his  coming;  yet  century  after  century  rolled 
away,  and  no  Messiah!  But  when  the  darkest 
hour  had  arrived,  when  the  world  was  crowded 
with  idols,  "when  reason, tired  and  blind,"  could 
do  nothing  for  the  relief  of  man,  and  philosophy 
nothing, — when  Satan,  besides  possessing  the 
souls  of  mankind,  had  begun  to  claim  their  bodies 
also  as  his,  when  the  sceptre  had  departed  from 
Judah,  the  law-giver  from  between  his  feet,  when 
the  Jews  were  slaves  to  the  Romans,  and  Herod 
an  Edomite,  king;  then.  He  comes;  then  the 

"  Star  of  the  east, — the  horizon  adorning, 
Guides ^here  the  infant  Redeemer  is  laid." 

Christ  entered  into  a  ship,  and  ^his  disciples 
followed  him.  While  the  sun  shone  clear,  the 
winds  were  favorable,  the  motions  of  the  ship 
easy,  and  the  waves  curled  gently  around  her, 
their  Master  "  was  in  the  hinder  part  of  the  ship, 
asleep  on  a  pillow."  But  when  there  arose  a 
great  tempest,  insomuch  that  the  billows  beat 
violently,  covered  the  ship,  and  threatened  to 
ingulf  him  and  them  ;  then  he  arose,  and  rebuk- 
ed the  winds  and  the  sea,  "  and  there  was  a  great 
calm." 

The  Apostle  Peter  is  apprehended,  thrust  into 
prison,  and  delivered  to  four  quaternions  of  sol- 
diers to  keep  him.  There  he  remains,  though 
"  prayer  is  made  unceasing  by  tlie  church  unto 
God  for  him," — until  the  night  previous  to  his 
contemplated  execution.  Wlien  that  crisis 
came, — the  very  night  before,  by  a  decree  of 
Herod,  he  was  to  be  brought  forth, — brought 
forth  that  his  enemies  might  make  him  a  public 
victim  to  their  rage,  put  him  to  deatli  like  a  wild 
beast  for  their  entertainment ;  then,  an  angel  finds 
his  way  to  him  in  the  gloomy  dungeon,  and 
light  shines  in  upon  the  darkness,  and  his  fetters 
fall  off,  and  the  iron  gate  leading  into  the  city 
openeth  of  its  own  accord,  and  Peter  is  free ! 


228 


MAN'S   EXTREMITY,    GOD'S    OPPORTUNITY 


At  the  commenceinentof  the  Christian  dispen- 
sation, the  wrath  of  the  wicked  waxed  hot  against 
the  church  ;  but  when  this  wrath  was  the  hottest, 
when  that  barbarous  persecutor  Dioclesian  was 
so  confident  of  the  success  of  his  measures  to 
annihilate  the  church,  as  to  cause  pillars  to  be 
erected  with  the  inscription,  '' Deleia  supersti- 
tione  Christiana,'' — the  Christian  superstition  is 
destroyed,— her  deliverance  under  Constantine 
the  Great  was  just  at  hand.  Constantine  suc- 
ceeded Dioclesian. 

After  the  decease  of  Constantine,  the  church 
suffered  severely  under  the  Roman  pontiffs.  But 
when  truth  was  adulterated,  virtue  driven  to 
cloisters,  and  piety  bad  almost  become  extinct, — 
when  the  grave  of  spiritual  Religion  was  dug,  and 
she,  to  human  appearances,  was  about  to  descend 
into  it,  the  Lord  raised  up  Luther,  and  kindred 
minds  and  hearts  of  zeal  and  courage,  who  in- 
fused into  her  precious  body,  vitality  and  strength. 
When  the  Dominican  Tetzel  was  peddling  his 
indulgences  in  the  streets  of  Wittenberg,  the 
Scarlet  Lady  throned  upon  the  hills  was  in  her 
glory,  and  then  it  was  that  she  received  a  wound, 
from  which  she  has  never  recovered,  and  we  pray 
may  never  recover. 

And  just  previous  to  our  Saviour's  second  com- 
ing, we  have  reason  to  think  that  Zion  will  be 
wrapped  about  with  the  blackest  clouds.  "  When 
the  Sou  of  man  cometh,"— was  the  significant  in- 
terrogatory of  Christ,—"  when  the  Son  of  man 
cometh,  shall  he  find  faith  on  the  earth  ?"'     That 

is religion  will  be  at  a  low  ebb ;  believers  in 

him  be  very  few.  Yet,  at  this  juncture,  when 
the  gospel  shall  be  trampled  upon,  scoffers  cry 
"  where  is  the  promise  of  his  coming  ?"  and  when 
the  torrent  of  iniquity  shall  seem  to  be  bearing 
down  all  before  it,— Gog  and  Magog,  in  the  plen- 
itude of  their  strength  and  fury, — •'  the  earth  cor- 
rupt before  the  Lord,  and  the  earth  filled  with 
violence ;"  then,  too,  shall  "  the  Lord  arise,  and 
his  enemies  be  scattered  1" 

Other  illustrations  of  the  fact, — that  "  Man's 
extremity  is  God's  opportunity,"— it  were  easy 
to  produce.  But  these  may  suffice.  Jehovah 
does  appear  in  behalf  of  men,  and  especially  in 
behalf  of  his  people,  in  times  of  despondency  and 
distress. 

If  we  are  asked  why  He  proceeds  upon  this 
principle  ?  several  reasons  may  be  assigned.  His 
attributes  are  hereby  glorified  ;— His  attributes 
of  wisdom,  power,  compassion,  goodness,  forbear- 
ance, and  long  suffering.  His  attribute  of  wisdom. 
It  displays  superior  wisdom  to  devise  means  for 
the  removal  of  great  difficulties.  He  is  the  most 
learned  and  skillful  physician  who  can  master  the 
most  violent  and  dangerous  diseases.     And  when 


matters  have  reached  such  a  pass  that  all  which 
human  knowledge  can  do  is  unavailing,  God 
manifests  his  wisdom  by  a  successful  interposi- 
tion. When  informed  by  a  messenger  of  the 
sickness  of  his  friend  Lazarus,  "  Christ  abode  two 
days  still  in  the  same  place  where  he  was."  Not 
because  he  did  not  love  Lazarus,  but  because  be 
would  glorify  himself  in  raising  him  from  the 
dead.  In  bringing  the  counsels  of  the  heathen 
to  nought,  and  making  the  devices  of  the  prudent 
of  none  effect ;  in  turning  wise  men  backwards, 
and  circumventing  the  crafty  designs  of  the  arch 
apostate,  he  makes  a  signal  illustration  of  his 
wisdom. 

His  attribute  oi power.  The  weaker  his  Church, 
and  the  more  energetic  and  malignant  her  ene- 
mies, the  mightier  that  arm  which  upholds  the 
Church,  and  conquers  these  enemies.  Hence, 
when  in  the  case  of  Pharaoh's  hosts,  who,  breath- 
ing out  threatening  and  slaughter  against  Israel, 
cried,  "  I  will  pursue,  I  will  overtake,  I  will  di- 
vide the  spoil ;  I  will  draw  my  sword,  I  will  de- 
vour them ;"  God  blew  with  his  wind  and  the 
sea  covered  them,  and  they  sank  as  lead  in  the 
mighty  waters ;  he  eminently  glorified  his  pow- 
er. And  very  natural  was  the  exclamation  of 
the  redeemed  Jews,  as  they  beheld  horses  and 
riders  submerged  in  the  waves,  and  their  carcases 
driven  upon  the  shore, — "  The  Lord  is  a  man 
of  war,  the  Lord  is  his  name,  the  Lord  is  our 
strength." 

His  attributes  of  compassion  and  goodness.  It 
is  the  part  of  compassion  and  goodness  to  relieve 
distress ;  and  the  deeper  the  distress  the  great- 
er the  mercy.  When  the  Church  faints;  when 
friends  are  far  from  her,  and  sighs  are  wrung 
from  her,  then  the  kindness  of  her  covenant 
God  appears.  A  brother  is  born  for  adversity; 
and  so  is  a  father ;  and  when  neither  can  as- 
suage misery,  then  the  pity  and  benevolence  of 
Jehovah  appear  in  taking  us  up;  and  he  often 
waits  till  then  that  he  may  be  impressively  gra- 
cious unto  us.  "I  will  heal  thee  of  thy  wounds," 
said  he,  to  Zion,  "  because  they  called  thee  an 
outcast,  saying  this  is  Zion,  whom  no  man  seek- 
cth  after." 

His  attributes  of  forbearance  and  long  suffer- 
ing. He  shows  that  he  cherishes  no  malicious 
feelings  towards  the  creatures  he  has  made,  and 
though  they  do  wickedly,  that  he  is  willing  to  be 
patient,  and  grant  them  space  for  repentance. 
Not  till  the  cup  of  iniquity  is  quite  full,  is  the 
struggling  bolt  of  justice  loosed,  and  sent  abroad 
on  its  mission.  Not,  sometimes,  till  the  question 
arises  whether  his  people  shall  be  destroyed,  or 
their  foes  destroyed,  does  He  destroy  the  latter. 


THE    PRESS 


229 


Further, — by  acting  upon  this  principle, — a 
spirit  of  prayer  and  supplication  is  awakened. 

"We  naturally  rely  upon  our  own  resources, — 
dislike  to  be  laid  under  obligations  to  another, 
and  are  disposed  to  resort  to  numerous  expedients 
before  supplicating  aid.  Hence  the  little  prayer 
that  ascends  from  our  earth — for  prayer  is  the 
breath  of  want.  It  is  an  humble  confession  of  self- 
impotence,  an  extorted  acknowledgment  of  an- 
other's superior  ability.  But  in  man's  extremity, 
lie  calls  upon  God,  and  those  who  are  wont  to 
invoke  Him,  then  invoke  Him  with  increased 
fervor  and  importunity.  When  did  the  children 
of  Israel  cry  unto  the  Lord?  When  "they  lifted 
up  their  eyes,  and  beheld  the  Egyytians  march- 
ing after  tliem,  and  were  sore  afraid."  When 
did  the  disciples  cry — "  Lord  save  us,  we  perish?" 
When  a  storm  of  wind  came  down  upon  the  lake. 
When  did  Peter  pray  ?  When  he  saw  the  heavy 
swell  of  the  sea,  and  was  beginning  to  sink. 
When  was  the  Psalmist  most  earnest  in  his  plead- 
ings in  behalf  of  himself  and  friends?  When  ene- 
mies came  in  upon  him  and  them  like  a  flood. 
"  Have  mercy  upon  us,  0  Lord,"  is  his  cry, — "have 
mercy  upon  us, — for  we  are  exceedingly  filled 
with  contempt."  It  is  in  the  hour  of  perplexity  and 
distress,  when  men's  hearts  are  foiling  for  fear, 
and  for  the  looking  of  those  disasters  which  may 
befal  them, — it  is  then,  that,  like  the  mariners 
bound  with  Jonah  for  Tarshish,  they  "arise  and 
call  upon  God ;"  and  since  Jehovah  enjoins  prayer 
as  a  duty,  and  would  encourage  it,  He  often 
brings  the  children  of  men  into  straits,  that  so 
they  may  feel  the  necessity  of  it,  and  appreciate 
the  value  of  it. 

He  acts  likewise  upon  this  principle,  to  in- 
crease the  confidence  of  his  people  in  him. 

Beholding  how  they  have  been  rescued  and 
sustained  in  six  troubles,  they  may  feel  confident 
tliat  they  will  be  borne  triumphantly  through 
the  seventh.  Hence,  David,  when  remonstrated 
with  against  exposing  himself  to  the  might  and 
fury  of  the  gigantic  Goliah,  properly  replied — 
"The  Lord,  who  delivered  me  out  of  the  paw  of 


the  lion,  and  out  of  the  paw  of  the  bear,  he  will 
deliver  me  out  of  the  hand  of  this  Philistine." 
And  when  the  Church  marks  how  signally  she  has 
been  saved,  when  wofully  sunk,  she  may  feel 
"  strong  in  the  Lord,  and  in  the  power  of  his 
might."  As  Abraham  could  not  but  confide  in 
God,  that  he  would  take  care  of  Isaac,  after  that 
lie  had  redeemed  him  from  the  knife  and  the 
flames,  by  the  intervention  of  tlie  lamb  caught  in 
the  thicket,  so  the  spiritual  children  of  Abraham 
may  learn  from  the  repeated  deliverances  of  the 
Church  from  the  ferocious  passions  of  those  who 
would  exterminate  her,  that  '"Jehovah  is  in  the 
midst  of  her,  and  she  cannot  be  moved." 

We  may  say,  too,  that  such  deliverances  are 
well  calculated  to  dishearten  the  enemies  of 
Christianity.  They  may  see,  in  these  instances  of 
Divine  interposition,  that  there  is  a  vigilant,  able 
guardian  of  truth,  and  the  friends  of  truth,  and 
that  it  is  useless  to  war  against  it  and  them.  And 
were  they  not  infatuated  they  would  see  that 
truth  and  Christianity  are  impregnable, — that 
"  there  is  no  enchantment  against  Jacob,  nor  any 
divination  against  Israel."  Like  the  natives  who, 
having  chased  the  pious  captain  Wilson,  and  hav- 
ing seen  him  plunge  into  the  Coleroon,  a  stream 
full  of  alligators,  and  emerge  safe  on  the  opposite 
bank,  were  so  struck  at  the  hand  of  God  in  his 
preservation,  as  not  to  discharge  their  arrows  but 
retire  silent  and  thoughtful  from  the  pursuit;  so 
ihey,  were  they  not  smitten  with  madness  and 
blindness  of  heart,  would  acknowledge  that  a 
Divinity  is  on  the  side  of  the  gospel  and  Zion,  and 
all  endeavors  to  destroy  either  is  the  height  of 
folly.  "Truth  crushed  to  earth  will  rise  again," 
— and  the  Church  attend  the  funeral  of  all  other 
societies.  Indeed,  truth  and  the  Churcli  will  sur- 
vive the  general  conflagration, — will  rise  from 
the  ashes  of  tlie  world  like  the  fabled  Phujnix, 
and  spring  upwards  immortal. 

The  sentiment,  therefore,  with  which  we  com- 
menced our  article,  is  founded  in  fact,  and  is  hap- 
py in  its  bearings  on  God  and  humanity. 


THE   PRESS, 


A  MILLION  tongues  are  thine,  and  they  are  heard 
Speaking  of  Hope  to  nations  in  the  prime 
Of  Freedom's  day — to  hasten  on  the  lime 
When  the  wide  world  of  spirit  shall  be  stirred 
With  higher  aims  than  now— when  man  shall  call 
Each  man  his  brother — each  shall  tell  to  each 
His  tale  of  love — and  pare  and  holy  speech 


Be  music  for  the  soul's  high  festival ! 

Thy  gentle  notes  are  heard  like  choral  wava.-i, 

Reaching  the  mountain,  plain,  and  quiet  rale  ; 

Thy  thunder-tones  are  like  the  sweeping  gale, 
Bidding  the  tribes  of  men  no  more  be  slaves  ; 
And  earth's  remotest  island  hears  the  sound, 
That  floats  on  ether  wings  the  world  aroiuiJ. 

WiLUAH  Glaxo  Bocbse. 


EARLY    LIFE    IN    THE    COUNTHY. 


BY      R.       H.      STODDARD. 


It  is  now  some  eigliteen  years  since  I  was  a 
boy,  and  lived  in  the  country,  yet  nearly  every 
scene  that  I  then  beheld  is  as  fresh  before  me,  as 
the  events  of  yesterday.  Those  who  have  lived 
in  contemplation  of  the  works  of  nature  in  youth, 
rarely  lose  the  memory  of  one  of  her  charms, 
though  after  years  may  call  them  to  the  dusty 
streets  and  turmoil  of  cities.  In  hours  of  weari- 
ness, and  solemn  thought,  the  recollection  of  pas- 
toral landscapes,  and  the  free  unfettered  heart  of 
youth, 

"  Clothing  the  palpable  and  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn,"' 

comes  over  one  like  "  airs  from  heaven."  Na- 
ture is  a  mighty  healer  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 
and  a  gentle  minister  of  goodness  to  those  who 
listen  to  her  teachings.  "  She  speaks  a  various 
language,"  but  always  one  of  serenity  and  beauty. 
No  storm  of  passion  mars  her  divine  aspect,  no 
sorrow  mingles  in  her  manifold  harmonies. 
Even  the  dark  and  solemn  in  nature  leave  a 
softening  and  elevating  impression  on  the  mind. 
The  cloven  peak  of  the  mountain ;  the  deep 
chasms;  the  thunder  storm,  and  the  illimitable 
sea ;  never  jar  on  the  most  sensitive  heart, 
though  its  own  passions,  and  the  miseries  of 
mankind,  are  a  torture  and  a  discord.  It  is  but  the 
deep  bass  of  the  organ ;  the  crash  in  the  har- 
mony ;  the  shade  of  the  picture :  and,  so  far  from 
depressing,  lifts  us  above  the  level  of  mortal  life 
and  men,  and  we  feel 

"  A  presence  that  disturbs  us  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  :  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
"Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  ; 
A  motion,  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thoughts, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Oh  ye  dwellers  in  the  dust  and  noise  of  cities, 
ye  weary-hearted  money -getters,  rich  and  poor, 
come  out  into  the  green  world  of  nature ;  and 
bathe  your  souls  in  the  living  waters  of  beauty. 
There  is  a  blue  sky  over  the  woods  and  fields, 
though  you  hardly  ever  see  it  for  the  smoke  of 


your  manufactories :  you  walk  on  hard  brick 
pavements,  but  the  fields  are  carpeted  with  grass, 
and  sown  with  wild  flowers.  Look  at  the  sickly 
trees  that  try  to  shade  your  walks,  but  fail 
miserably  in  the  attempt ;  and  then  come  out 
into  tlie  grand  old  forests  of  your  native  land. 
There  you  may  rove  for  days  in  eternal  twilight 
and  coolness,  breathing  odors  at  every  step  ; 
your  pale  cheeks  will  become  ruddy  with  the 
rose  of  health ;  your  thin  frames  will  grow  hardy 
and  muscular,  and  your  hearts  nobler,  and  more 
divine,  than  they  ever  can  be  in  counting-houses 
and  gas-light.  Your  legers  may  be  heavy  on 
the  Dr.  side,  and  all  good  debts ;  but  the  book  of 
nature  (if  I  may  be  allowed  an  opinion  in  the 
matter,)  is  far  richer,  and  more  trustworthy. 
There  is  no  bankruptcy  here,  not  even  in  winter, 
when  all  is  covered  with  snow  and  ice.  If  the 
fruits  are  gone  then,  and  the  harvestsall  gathered 
in,  the  woods  are  hung  with  jewels.  Every  man 
may  have  a  private  Golconda  of  his  own,  and  be 
as  rich  as  he  (and  the  frost)  pleases.  I  have  no 
doubt,  from  the  hearsay  of  others,  (for  I  have 
never  been  blessed  myself  by  the  lady  in  ques- 
tion,) that  fortune  is  a  very  pleasant  thing.  I 
shoitld  not  object,  as  a  particular  favor  to  some 
friend,  to  receive  a  small  annuity,  say  five  hun- 
dred per  year ;  but  as  many  thousands  could  not 
keep  me  from  the  country,  and  rural  enjoyments. 

"  I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny, 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace, 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face  ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve. 
Let  liealth  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 
And  I  then  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  ; 

Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave  I'' 

In  my  last  paper  of  this  title,  I  left  myself  at 
Hingham  Hill,  a  juvenile:  how  long  I  remained 
in  that  beautiful  place,  I  know  not ;  I  can  remem- 
ber nothing  distinctly  after  leaving  it,  till  we 
went  to  reside  in  the  little  town  of  Abington, 
some  miles  distant.  There  I  spent  some,  nay,  I 
may  say  all,  the  happiest  years  of  my  existence. 
I  cannot  do  the  town,  or  my  life  at  that  period, 
justice.     I  was  a  simple,  happy  boy  there  ;  and 


EARLY   LIFE   IN   THE    COUNTRY. 


231 


many  a  time  since  I  have  tried  to  recall  what  I 
felt  then,  and  what  all  children  must  have  felt  in 
the  same  circumstances;  for  all  men  are  full  of 
poetry,  and  wonder,  and  beauty,  in  their  early 
years : 

"  Heaven  lies  about  us,  in  our  infancy." 

Life  seemed  a  di-eam ;  nothing  was  real ;  or  all 
things  were  lifted  above  reality :  the  dusty  road 
that  ran  by  the  door  was  not  a  common  road ; 
the  old  barn  was  not  a  common  barn ;  the  cher- 
ry tree,  by  the  stone  wall,  was  as  wonderful  as  if 
it  had  been  guarded  by  the  Ilosperides.  Everj-- 
tliing  was  strange  and  wonderful :  there  was  a 
shape  in  mist  and  cloud,  a  presence  in  the  blue 
sky  and  the  light  of  summer :  ever}'^  day  was  an 
epoch,  every  boy  a  friend,  every  little  lass  a  sis- 
ter and  a  sweet-heart.  Childhood  added  to  the 
universe 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream." 

The  finest  poet  does  no  more,  not  often  as 
much,  as  the  child :  the  child  feels,  the  poet 
describes ;  and  happy  indeed  is  he,  if  he  can 
describe  these  things,  and  the  sensations  and 
moods  to  which  they  give  birth,  with  sufficient 
distinctness,  or  indistinctness,  as  the  case  may 
require,  for  others  to  recognize  them,  and  him, 
as  something  loved  and  known  of  old.  It  has 
always  seemed  to  me  that  the  poetry  of  dreamy 
sensation  is  the  most  difficult  and  most  ethereal 
of  all.  Few  men  succeed  in  this  walk  of  the 
Muses.     Apollo  himself  seems  to  hold  the  clue. 

Our  cottage  was  by  the  roadside,  a  small,  black- 
boarded  building,  which  must  have  seen  some 
twenty  years  when  we  moved  into  it.  I  see  it  be- 
fore me  now  as  plainly  as  the  building  next  door, 
which  blocks  the  sky  from  my  window.  One  half 
the  cottage  curtain  has  slipped  from  its  loop,  and 
blows  out  through  the  open  sash.  An  old  flower- 
pot, crusted  with  mos.s,  stands  in  the  window. 
It  is  a  rose.  Up  the  sash  steals  an  ambitious 
creeper,  wild  vine,  morning-glory,  or  the  common 
garden  bean,  as  the  case  may  be.  A  smooth 
block  of  stone,  one  step  in  height,  lies  in  front 
of  the  door,  from  which  a  j^ath  runs  through  the 
closely-nibbled  grass  in  the  yard,  to  the  road. 
From  the  corner  of  the  liouse,  on  the  left,  a  line 
of  picket-fence  forms  the  end  of  the  garden  wall. 
Tliere,  in  old  time,  we  used  to  have  the  greater 
part  of  our  flowers.  They  were  not  over-choice, 
I  fear :  red  and  white  hollyhocks,  poppies,  and 
peonies,  with  other  like  gaudy  attempts  in  the 
floral  way;  now  and  then  a  stray  rose,  or  a 
bunch  of  fringed  pinks,  but  for  the  most  part 


the  "  common  people  of  nature."  I  never  have 
been  able  since  to  bear  the  sight  of  flowers  in  a 
garden :  they  seem  in  an  unnatural  state  there, 
like  a  party  of  ladies  at  the  opera.  Let  me  have 
them  (both  flowers  and  ladies)  in  their  homes,  in 
the  woods  and  fields,  where  the  dew  can  wash 
their  cheeks,  and  the  sunshine  press  them  to  its 
glowing  lips. 

Of  all  my  early  pleasures,  the  chiefcst  was  to 
rise  on  a  spring  morning  and  look  from  my 
chamber  window  through  the  tufts  of  snow- 
blossomed  peach  trees,  over  the  misty,  fresh, 
soft  green  fields  below,  and  beyond  the  neigh- 
boring farm  house,  on  and  on,  till  the  gray  woods 
belting  the  horizon  barred  my  eager  vision.  The 
sight  of  a  green  field  in  spring  alvrays  gives  me 
an  unutterable  feeling  of  luxury  and  pleasant- 
ness. I  take  the  landscape  into  my  soul  as  a 
lover  drinks  in  the  image  of  his  beloved  one,  and 
often,  in  after  years?,  recall  the  moment  that  im- 
pressed it  upon  my  memory.  Not  a  bough  is 
missing  from  the  trees,  not  a  dew-drop  or  daisy 
from  the  grass,  and  the  very  light  and  shade 
which  then  made  it  beautiful  and  peculiar,  arc 
painted  eternally  on  the  picture. 

There  was  an  old  wood  on  the  I'ight  and  back 
of  the  cottage,  where  it  made  an  elbow  around 
the  corner  of  the  fields,  and  stretched  away  in  a 
level  line  till  it  was  lost  in  the  distance.  At  one 
point  the  trees  seemed  to  have  shrunk  together 
to  form  an  aisle  ;  for  some  ten  or  twelve  feet 
they  opened,  and  hardly  joined  their  branches 
over  the  space.  Spots  of  sunshine,  moving  east- 
ward or  westward,  might  be  seen  on  tiie  dead 
leaves  which  carpeted  it,  from  morning  till 
sunset ;  and  when  the  sun  went  down,  patches 
of  moonlight  lay  there  like  drifts  of  snow.  I 
was  never  weary  of  tramping  in  the  leaves  on 
holidays  and  after  school  hours  :  their  sharp, 
quick  rustling  is  a  pleasant  sound,  and  the  scent 
which  embalms  the  whole  air  exceedingly  fresh 
and  dolieious.  Tiie  larger  boys  of  the  town  were 
in  the  habit  of  setting  snares  for  partridges, 
though  I  believe  none  of  them  ever  made  his 
fortune  from  the  sale  of  game.  Squirrels  were 
plenty,  but  exceeding  shy.  "We  used  to  see 
them  occasionally  scampering  from  bi-anch  to 
branch ;  and  once  or  twice  a  day  we  were  sure 
to  hear  some  stray  mastiff  barking  in  the  dis- 
tance. Tradition,  on  such  occasions,  always  said 
that  he  had  driven  one  to  his  hole ;  but  as  he 
generally  went  home  without  his  victim,  those 
who  prized  the  canine  race  declared  it  something 
else,  and  not  a  real  squirrel.  The  robin  red- 
breast used  to  build  his  nest  in  the  pine  trees; 
and  we  children  loved  him  for  the  sake  of  the 


232 


EARLY   LIFE   IN   THE   COUNTRY. 


"  Babes  in  the  "Wood."  I  have  my  doubts  now 
about  that  ancient  feat  of  sextonship ;  but  I  love 
the  robin  yet,  and  often  dream  of  his  "red 
stomacher." 

But  perhaps  the  forest  was  more  beautiful  in 
autumn  than  at  any  other  period  of  the  year. 
To  be  sure,  the  flowers  we  used  to  gather 
through  the  summer  were  all  gone,  and  berries 
were  not  to  be  had  at  any  price ;  but  the  glory 
of  the  fading  leaves  amply  compensated  for  them. 
I  never  expect  to  be  so  happy  again,  as  when  I 
used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  aisles  of  that  old 
forest,  gazing  at  the  illuminated  leaves,  which 
interwove  like  i-ainbows,  and  made  a  dome  over 
ray  head  ;  and  under  my  feet  it  was  the  same : 
myriads  and  myi-iads  of  i  eaves,  all  touched  and 
tinted  Avitli  the  most  gorgeous  hues  from  the 
palette  of  autumn.  The  most  common  colors  in 
this  infinite  kaleidoscope  were  yellow  and  jDur- 
ple,  running  off  into  all  shades  and  tints :  some- 
times variegated  and  clouded ;  sometimes  barred 
and  flecked;  and  sometimes  of  a  single  hue, 
blushing  through  all  their  stems  and  fibres. 
Look  where  I  would,  it  was  a  realm  of  enchant- 
ment, more  beautiful  than  a  dream ;  and  horn- 
after  hour,  lapped  in  the  most  delicious  dreams 
I  used  to  wander  over  the  fallen  leaves  I  feared 
to  crush.  I  always  think  .autumn  more  beauti- 
ful than  winter  in  its  effects  on  woodland  scen- 
ery: the  glittering  icicles  on  the  sleety  bough 
remind  me  too  much  of  those  abominable  prisms 
which  dangle  from  large  chandeliers;  besides, 
when  the  sun  melts  them,  they  form  an  unpleas- 
ant reminiscence  of  dew. 

The  road,  as  I  have  already  said,  ran  past  our 
door,  and  just  above  the  cottage  on  the  right,  for 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  through  the  forest  I 
have  been  describing.    On  either  side  the  fre- 
quent rains  had  washed  from  its  edges  large 
gullies,  which  were  generally  overgrown  with 
low  bushes,  plentifully  sprinkled  with  briers; 
nor  did  they  lack,  among  other  attractions,  or 
nuisances,  as  the  reader  is  inclined  to  view  them, 
a  large  supply  of  spiders,  and  their  webs :  these 
in   some   degree   were   forgotten  and  forgiven, 
however,  for  the  sake  of  the  blackberries  which 
they  surrounded.     We    might  be   seen,    as  we 
went  to  school   in  the  morning,  stooping  over 
some  monster  vine,  with  black  lips,   when  we 
should  have  been  in  hearing  of  the  bell    with 
which  the  mistress  always  rang  us  in.    I  have  an 
indistinct  memory  of  sundry  floggings  for  being 
late,  and  dirty-fingered ;  but  how  could  I  help 
it,  when   blackberries   grew   by  the   roadside  ? 
The  flowers  of  learning  were  cultivated  amongst 
us ;  the  tlu'ce  R's  (reading,  'riting,  and  'rithme- 


tic)  highly  valued  in  that  part  of  New-England ; 
but  none  of  us  could,  or  would  resist  blackber- 
ries ! 

Before  we  came  to  the  end  of  the  road,  the 
woods  terminated  in  two  or  three  pastures,  at 
the  end  of  which  another  road  branched  off  to 
the  right  and  left :  we  used  to  hate  the  sights 
because  it  led  us  to  our .  old  school-house ;  nor 
do  I  think  we  were  at  all  remarkable  in  our  dis- 
like, since  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover  in 
children  of  later  time  any  great  love  for  scholas- 
tic pursuits.  Between  you  and  me,  reader,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  the  whole  system  of  modern 
education  based  upon  a  fallacy.  Why  children 
of  a  tender  age  should  be  made  to  sit  on  hard 
benches  six  hours  a  day,  in  the  heat  of  summer, 
or  the  cold  of  winter,  conning  tasks  which  never 
can  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  them,  theoretically 
or  practically,  is  more  than  I  have  ever  been  able 
to  determine ;  nor  have  I  ever  been  able  to  find 
any  one  who  could.  If  we  would  bring  gym- 
nastics and  bodily  training  in  with  some  of  the 
best  of  the  present  studies,  we  would  be  the 
benefactors  instead  of  the  tormentors  of  the  juve- 
nile classes.  Again,  until  the  curiosity  of  a  child 
can  be  awakened  and  aroused,  all  that  ever  can 
be  drilled  into  him  will  fail  of  its  desired  effect. 
Learning  by  rote  is  not  learning :  wisdom  and 
stimulated  memories  are  two  different  things,  as 
the  world  will  one  day  find  out. 

I  remember  that  in  my  school-days  I  was  gene- 
rally perfect  in  my  lessons.  I  could  tell  you  the 
height  of  the  Himalaya  Mountains,  or  the 
width  of  the  Amazon ;  the  extent  of  the  great 
wall  of  China,  or  the  length  of  the  Grand  Lama's 
great  toe.  I  was  well  "  filed  up"  in  the  different 
gases,  the  various  "gins"  of  the  chemical  bar, 
and  could  determine  to  a  nicety  the  amount  of 
air  in  a  vessel  which  had  been  exhausted  by  an 
aii"-pump:  the  amoi:nt  was  "nil;"  and  "nil" 
have  been  all  the  advantages  that  I  have  derived 
from  this  most  interesting  of  sciences.  All  that  I 
learned  at  school  has  vanished  like  a  morning 
mist,  and  I  believe  it  is  so  with  men  in  general. 
My  curiosity  was  not  stimulated  as  it  should  have 
been,  and  what  I  learned  to-day,  as  a  task,  was 
forgotten  to-morrow,  as  a  pleasure.  All  this  will 
be  mended  before  many  years  have  past^  or 
dunces  will  be  multiplied  to  an  alarming  ex- 
tent. 

I  believe  the  old  custom  of  teaching  by  women 
has  in  some  degree  fallen  into  disuse  in  that  part 
of  the  country  now.  I  passed  by  the  old 
school  some  year  or  two  ago,  and  saw  a  village 
pedagogue,  a  young  sickly -looking  student,  in  the 
ancient  desk  ;  but  when  I  was  a  boy  the  school- 


EARLY   LIFE    IN  THE    COUNTRY, 


233 


master  was  unknown  there.    My  earliest  teacher 
was  a  woman,  and  I  hope  my  latest  will  be. 

"  The  very  first 
Of  human  life  must  spring  from  woman's  breast ; 
Your  first  small  words  are  taught  you  from  her  lips  ; 
Your  first  tears  quenched  by  her,  and  your  last  sighs 
Too  often  breathed  out  in  a  -Woman's  hearing, 
When  men  have  shrunk  from  the  ignoble  care 
Of  watching  the  last  hour  of  him  who  led  them." 

"Well  do  I  remeniher  tlie  pleasant  face  of  Mis- 
tress Richmond,  and  the  blue  sillc  dress  that  she 
wore  then.  She  was  a  mild  and  beautiful  woman, 
or  so  she  seemed  to  me  in  my  juvenile  days. 
Many  a  reward  of  merit  have  I  I'eceived  from  her 
fair  hand?.  Do  they  give  them  to  the  children 
now,  I  wonder?  They  were  simple,  plain  tilings 
enough — little  slips  of  paper  with  a  bee-hive,  or 
something  of  that  order,  for  a  vignette,  and  tlie 
cabalistic  words,  "  Reward  of  merit,  presented 
to  (blank)  for  good  behavior  and  proficiency  in 
(his  or  her)  studies.  So-and-so,  Preceptor."  To 
the  mind  of  some,  these  little  things  may  seem 
unworthy  of  notice,  but  if  you  reflect  a  little,  my 
friends,  you  will  find  all  the  world  crazy  on  the 
same  point.  The  artist  and  literary  man  is  desir- 
ous of  a  favorable  notice  in  the  pages  of  some  in- 
fluential review ;  that  is  his  "  reward  of  merit." 
The  soldier  wishes  his  brave  deeds  to  be  chron- 
icled in  the  Gazette;  that  and  a  two-penny 
medal  is  his  "  reward  of  merit."  The  mercliiuit 
desires  his  name  to  be  good  on  'Change,  and  in 
the  ledgers  of  his  banking  friends;  that  is  his 
"  reward  of  merit."  In  liict,  I  doubt  very  mucli 
if  any  of  us  are  sinless  enough  to  "cast  the  first 
stone  "  at  this  folly. 

I  wonder  where  my  old  school-fellows  are 
now.  Tlie  greater  part,  if  living,  are  no  doubt 
married,  and  well-to-do  in  the  world.  I  know 
one  or  two  of  them  are,  for  I  pass  their  farm- 
houses, and  certain  chubby  youngsters  that  there 
can  be  no  mistake  about,  every  time  I  visit 
Abington.  They  have  forgotten  me  ;  the  ties  of 
boyhood  and  school  friendship  are  soon  broken  ; 
but  the  man  who  lias  no  greater  evil  than  that  to 
complain  of  is  happy.  It  is  when  we  grow  old- 
er, and  only  then,  that  our  hearts  become  stable 
enough  to  receive  deep  loves  and  passions.  The 
child  will  quarrel  with  his  fnend  one  moment, 
and  make  friends  with  his  enemy  the  next. 
Where  are  the  old  books  that  I  used  to  study 
— the  dog's-eared  spelling-book,  and  the  Parley's 
Geography  ?  "Was  there  a  bona  Jide  man  like 
Peter,  or  so  profound  a  word-knower  as  Noah 
"Webster,  or  was  it  all  a  fiction  ?  And  the  crack- 
ed slate  and  pencil — have  they  gone  tlio  way  of 
earth  ?  or  do  they  do  duty  under  the  dirty  cuffs 


of  some  urchin  of  to-day  ?  I  saw  my  old  seat  in 
the  corner  when  I  was  there  last,  but  the  books 
and  the  slate  were  gone :  the  initials  that  I  was 
whipped  for  carving  were  missing  too  ;  nor  have 
I  yet,  as  Ralph  Hoyt  once  said,  "carved  them 
on  the  scroll  of  fame."  How  we  used  to  play ! 
how  idle  we  boys  were  in  the  olden  time  !  School 
was  a  torture  to  us,  a  pound  into  which  we  were 
driven  unwillingly,  and  we  determined  to  make 
the  best  of  it,  and  we  did — when  we  could  elude 
the  vigilance  of  the  mistress  and  the  monitors. 
Poor  woman  !  our  idleness  and  bad  temper  must 
have  been  a  sore  trial  to  her.  "We  little  thought 
that  her  heart  might  ache,  and  her  head  throb, 
at  our  peevisli  stupidity.  "We  were  like  the 
world,  and  had  no  pity  or  love  for  those  who 
taught  us  truth  and  wisdom. 

"  They  learnt  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  song." 

The  school-house  branched  off  to  the  right  from 
our  cottage  road  ;  but  at  about  the  same  distance 
on  the  left  lay  the  old  blacksmith's  shop  of  "  Un- 
cle Nat."  (He  was  everybody's  uncle  !  like  those 
kind-hearted  gentlemen  of  English  farces.)  No 
village  is  complete  without  a  smithy:  how 
could  it  be,  when  even  Olympus  was  not  itself 
when  Vulcan  was  absent  ?  From  the  days  of 
Tubal  Cain,  the  oldest  iron  worker  on  i-ecord, 
down  to  th.it  of  the  apprentice  of  yesterday, 
blacksmiths  have  been  a  favorite  and  honorable 
class  of  men.  I  never  heard  of  any  one  (who  ever 
i  heard  of  one?)  v>'ho  was  not  a  jolly  fellow,  and 
good  withal,  though  a  little  fond  at  times  of  blue 
Mondays.  I  have  known  many  of  the  craft,  and 
always  likeil  them  vastly,  even  the  one  whom 
I  once  knew.  But,  to  go  back  to  my  uncle  Nat, 
he  was  a  fine  old  Cyclopean  fellow,  swarthy  and 
huge.  Ili-s  head  is  now  bald,  and  his  strong  arm 
has  lost  much  of  its  vigor  and  nju.<cle:  but  he 
has  not  altogether  lived  in  vain  ;  his  life  lias  been 
profitable  to  him  and  to  us. 

"  Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  Life, 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought. 
And  thu4  on  its  sounding  anvil  t>haped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought  "' 

Some  two  or  three  years  ago  I  visited  the  old 
forge,  and  while  there  I  could  not  btit  put  in 
verse  a  ilescriptiun  of  it.  The  piece  lias  no  merit 
but  an  exact  fidelity  to  the  truth  of  things  in 
their  detail  and  atmosphere  It  may,  or  it  may 
not  be  poetry,  but  it  is  at  least  truth.  As  a  slight 
reminiscence  of  my  youth  it  is  pleasant  to  me;  I 
hope  it  maybe  to  others  ;  but  anything  that  re- 
calls their  youtli  cannot  be  wholly  uninteresting  • 
so,  if  you  please,  we  will  go  over  the 


234 


THE  USE   OF   TEARS, 


BLACKSMITH  S  SHOP. 
Beside  the  road  in  Harley  town. 

There  stands  an  ancient  blacksmith's  shop  : 
Who?e  walls  and  roof  are  dark  and  lo'.v, 

"U'ih  chimneys  peeping  o'er  the  top  ; 
Some  two  or  three  on  either  side, 
But  only  one  with  fire  supplied. 
Which  puffs  its  smoky  volumes  high 
In  dusky  wreaths  along  the  sky. 

Harrows,  and  teams  with  splintered  shafts, 
And  broken  wheels,  are  standing  round  ; 
And  molten  coals  and  cinders  lie, 

In  scattered  heaps  along  the  ground  : 
And  in  the  yard  beside  the  door. 
You  see  the  square  old  tiring  floor, 
With  grass  and  weeds  and  waving  sedge 
Bent  down  around  its  trampled  edge. 

Fronting  the  door  the  anvil  stands, 

"With  burnished  surface  broad  and  clear  ; 
The  rusty  pincers,  dropped  in  haste, 

And  heavy  sledge  are  leaning  near ; 
While  hammers,  tongs,  and  chisels  cold. 
And  crooked  nails,  and  horse-shoes  old, 
With  all  the  tools  renowned  of  yore 
In  blacksmith  duties,  line  the  floor. 

Beneath  the  window  stands  a  row 

Of  dusty  benches,  rough  and  rude  ; 
And  bars  and  files  are  thrown  thereon. 
And  vices  on  the  edge  are  screwed  ; 
And  see  the  last  year's  ahnanao, 
With  songs  and  ballads  torn  and  black. 
And  battle  prints  by  sea  and  land. 
That  line  the  walls  on  every  hand. 


The  forge  is  in  a  little  nook 

Before  the  chimney  slant  and  wide. 
And,  in  a  leather  apron  clad. 

You  see  the  helper  by  its  side  : 
Nodding  his  head  and  paper  crown, 
He  moves  the  handle  up  and  down 
Beneath  his  arm,  with  motion  slow, 
And  makes  the  rattling  bellows  blow. 

Hard  by,  the  blacksmith  folds  his  arms. 
And  swells  their  knotty  sinews  strong  j 
Or  turns  his  iron  in  the  fire, 

And  rakes  the  coals,  and  hums  a  song  ; 
But  when  his  heat  throws  out  its  light. 
He  hurries  to  the  anvil  bright. 
And  sledges  fall  with  deafening  sound. 
And  sparks  are  flying  thick  around. 

'The  village  idlers  lounge  about, 
And  talk  the  county  gossip  o'er  ; 
And  now  and  then  a  farmer's  man 

Drives  up  on  horseback  to  the  door  ; 
And  reapers  come  from  pastures  near. 
And  Ned,  the  ploughman,  with  his  steer  ; 
And  passing  teamsters  broken  down, 
O'erloaded  for  the  neighboring  town. 

From  morning's  break  to  evening's  close, 

In  early  spring  and  autumn  lime. 
The  dusky  blacksmith  plies  his  craft, 
And  makes  his  heavy  anvil  chime  ; 
And  oft  he  works  at  dead  of  night 
Like  some  deep  thinker,  strong  and  bright, 
That  shapes  his  strong,  laborious  lore, 
In  iron  thoughts  for  evermore  I 


THE    USE    OF    TEARS, 


B  T        MRS.      L 


A  B  B  L  L 


Whek  the  blinding  tear-drops  stand 

In  the  eye  unused  to  weep. 
Oh!  'tis  then  an  angel  band 

O'er  the  heart  blest  vigils  keep. 
Through  those  tears  a  ray  doth  shine 

Never,  never  seen  before. 
Light  and  glory  all  divine. 

Gleaming  through  those  tears  the  more. 

There  are  scenes  the  eye  sees  not 
When  the  world  attracts  it  most, — 

Claiming  ear  and  eye  and  thought, 
Inner  life,  and  beauty  lost '. 


And  how  cold  and  hard  and  lovr. 

As  the  iceberg  of  the  Pole, 
la  the  heart  till  melting  flows 

Love  through  tears  into  the  soul. 

When  wo  sit  in  Eden-bowers, 

Earthly  joy  but  dims  the  sight; 
Swiftly  haste  the  world-lit  hours. 

Blinding  with  their  meteor  light. 
Tears  are  messengers  of  Lo^'e 

Angel-borne,  in  mercy  given. 
Bringing  visions  from  above, 

God  and  glory,  light  and  Heaven  ! 


LOUIS    KOSSUTH. 


WITH  A  PORTRAIT. 


LuDWiG  KossoTH  was  born  in  ISOO  in  a  little 
village  of  the  Zemplin  district  in  northern  Hun- 
gary. He  was  of  a  Sclavonian  family.  His  pa- 
rents were  so  poor  that  he  was  obliged  to  provide 
for  hi.'i  own  education.  After  completing  his  le- 
gal studies  in  Pesth,  he  lived  in  the  greatest  pov- 
erty until  several  deputies  made  him  their  agent. 
By  these  means  he  acquired  that  accurate  know- 
ledge of  complicated  affairs  of  the  country  for 
which  he  was  afterwards  distinguished.  The  ne- 
cessity for  completing  his  education  brought  also 
the  means  of  doing  so.  His  literary  talents, 
which  were  discovered  by  his  employers,  were 
Ktill  further  developed  when  he  commenced  the 
editorship  of  a  parliamentary  journal.  Hitherto 
no  such  paper  had  existed  in  Uungajy.  The 
most  important  debates  of  both  Assemblies  were 
concealed  withiu  the  walls  of  the  Diet-house  ;  the 
official  journals  contained  only  some  meagre  no- 
tices. The  more  popular  Kossuth's  paper  became, 
the  greater  were  tlie  hindrances  opposed  by  the 
Government  to  a  work  so  dangerous  to  itself. 
His  journal  was  lithographed  in  order  to  avoid  the 
censure  to  which  all  printed  works  were  subject. 
The  police  managed  to  interpret  the  law  so  as  to 
include  lithographs  under  the  head  of  printed 
documents,  and  forbade  the  political  reports. 
Kossuth  now  had  recourse  to  the  expedient  of  cir- 
culating hi-"  journal  by  means  of  written  copies. 
His  editorial  office  in  Pesth  was  daily  frequented 
by  a  number  of  law-students  and  other  young  men, 
each  of  whom  took  a  copy  of  that  day's  journal. 
The  copies  thus  produced  travelled  from  house  to 
house,  from  province  to  province ;  and  though 
Kossuth  had  few  subscribers,  he  had  thousands 
of  readers.  The  censure  of  the  press  could  not 
touch  him  now,  and  the  Government  had  recourse 
to  its  favorite  step  of  imprisonment.  One  quiet 
niglit  a  police  force  broke  into  the  house  wliere 
Kossuth  lived,  made  him  rise  from  his  bed,  and 
took  him  off  to  prison.  Tiie  people  invest  this 
persecution  of  their  hero  with  a  somewhat  roman- 
tic dress.  According  to  their  statement,  Kossuth 
was  led  round  about  with  bandaged  eyes,  and 
was  taken  to  prison  also  blindfold,  so  that  he  did 
not  know  where  he  was  confined.  His  imprison- 
ment commenced  in  1837  ;  it  terminated  in  1&39 


by  a  grand  amnesty.  Two  other  patriots  were 
confined  with  him,  Wesseleuyi  and  another  of  less 
note,  whose  name  we  have  not  been  able  to  ascer- 
tain. Wesselenyi  grew  blind  in  prison ;  the  other 
became  mad.  Kossuth  came  forthwith  impaired 
health,  but  unsubdued  in  spirit,  to  labor  unsparing- 
ly for  the  renovation  of  his  country.  The  regula- 
tions concerning  the  press  being  now  less  adverse 
to  liberty,  Kossuth  founded  a  political  journal  in 
Pesth,  which  soon  became  more  generally  read 
than  any  other  in  th.e  country.  "His  abilities," 
eays  a  Sclavonian  writer,  "  were  now  acknowl- 
edged liy  all.  His  mind,  whicli  had  for  some  time 
been  at  rest,  was  only  strengthened  and  invigora- 
ted by  long  repose.  Like  a  bubbling  stream,  he 
watered  the  dry  fields  and  deserts  of  old  Hunga- 
rian society  ;  like  a  storm,  he  swept  over  the  tow- 
ering growth  of  feudalism.  Like  a  botanist  who 
knows,  observes  and  gathers  every  plant,  was  he 
in  his  restless  activity.  He  found  material  on 
every  side,  and  in  his  hands  everything  received 
life  and  truth."  He  was  intimately  acquainted 
with  all  the  social  and  municipal  rights  of  the  va- 
rious provinces,  and  in  his  paper  he  unsparingly 
exposed  all  trick  and  oppression  practised  by  the 
landed  proprietors  and  the  officials  of  the  country. 
Above  all  things  he  labored  to  maintain,  strength- 
en and  do  honor  to  the  Magyar  nationality  ;  to 
foster  the  democratic  element  and  the  independ- 
ence of  the  country  at  large.  With  these  views 
he  endeavored  to  rouse  the  activity  of  the  now 
noble  representatives  of  the  country,  and  also  to 
effect  a  change  in  the  city  members,  in  order  to 
pave  the  way  for  a  truly  representative  Govern- 
ment. Though  he  was  of  a  speculative  turn  of 
mind,  he  engaged  in  practical  labors  with  zeal  and 
distinction.  He  founded  an  industrial  union,  the  first 
act  of  whicl),  an  industrial  exhibition,  completely 
removed  the  erroneous  idea  that  the  country 
had  nothing  worthy  of  notice.  The  efforts  of  the 
society  were  specially  directed  to  encounige  in- 
dustry by  poly tcchtiic  reports  and  schools,  and  to 
support  its  undertaking  by  tolid  assistance  One 
consequence  of  tliis  encouragement  to  industry 
was  another  institution  of  Kossuth's,  one  how- 
ever of  questionable  utility,  namely,  a  protection- 
ist union  to  support  home  manufactures  against 


236 


LOUIS  KOSSUTH. 


those  of  foreign  countiies.     His  services  in  the 
founding  of  the  Hungarian  Trade-society  and  in 
many  other  active  movements,  were  not  less  im- 
pDrtant  than  his  efforts  for  the  improvement  and 
extension  of  many  Hungarian  manufactures.     In 
the  Diet  it  was  long  before  Kossuth  met  with  any 
success.     The  moderate  party  saw  their  hopes  of 
a  reconciliation  with  the  Government  at  Vienna 
destroyed.     He  was  accused  of  destructive  ten- 
dencies; the  sincerity  of  his  intentions  was  ques- 
tioned; calumny  was  busy  against  him  on  every 
side.     In  1847,  Kossuth  offered  himself  to  the 
Pesth  district  as  a  candidate  for  the  Diet.     His 
opponent  was  the  Conservative,  Biilla,  who  ob- 
tained 1,314  votes,  while  Kossuth  had  2,948.     In 
this  Diet  Kossuth  rose  to  the  position  of  first  speak- 
er of  the  Opposition.     By  his  brilliant  eloquence, 
by  his  moderation  and  dignity,  he  gained  the  ap- 
probation even  of  his  political  opponents.     The 
innumerable  slanders  by  which  he  had  been  as- 
sailed were  silenced  by  his  distinguished  talent. 
This  Diet  was  the  last  of  the  old  recjime.     A  new 
era  was  commenced  in  Hungary  by  the  thunder- 
ing eloquence  in  which  Kossuth  denounced  all  the 
sins  and  f;iilings  of  the  Metternich  system. 

The  news  of  the  downfall  of  Louis  Philippe's 
throne  caused  great  excitement  in  Hungary,  and 
encouraged  the  Opposition  to  assume  a  more  de- 
cided attitude.     They  condemned  in  the  most  se- 
vere manner  the  whole  policy  of  the  Vienna  Cab- 
inet, and  hinted  at  the  overthrow  of  the  Austrian 
monarchy  if  another  course  were  not  immediately 
adopted.    They  now  openly   acknowledged  their 
earnest  wish,  which  they  had  hitherto  not  express- 
ed, because  they  scarcely  dared  to  hope  for  its 
fulfilment,  and  demanded  a  constitutional  Govern- 
ment for  the  whole  of  Austria,  and  an  independent 
Ministry  for  Hungary.     Ludwig  Kossuth  was  the 
man  to  seize  the  proper  moment,  and  give  utter- 
ance to  the  long-suppressed  desires.     It  was  on  a 
financial  question  that  he  spoke.     The  impression 
made  by  his   eloquence  was  most  intense.     Even 
the  members  of  the  Opposition  were  astonished  at 
this  bold  speech,  which  they  themselves  consider- 
ed too  daring.     Nor  was  its  influence  confined  to 
Hungary  alone ;  it  extended  to  Austria,  and  pre- 
pared the  way  for  the  outbreak  of  the  revolution. 
When  the  Emperor  granted  tlie  demands   of  the 
people,  and  permitted  the  formation  of  an  Hunga- 
rian Ministry  under  the  presidency  of  Bathyani, 
Kossuth,  the  "  Liberator  of  Hungary,"  took  office 
as  Minister  of  Finance,  and  as  such  was  the  di- 
recting spirit  of  the  new  Government.     Ludwig 
Bathyani  and  Kossuth  were  old  allies  who  had 
fought  together  before  this  time  ;  both  were  striv- 
ing for  one  end,  viz.,  to  guard  the  independence  of 


Hungary  against  the  attacks  and  usurpations  of 
the  Austrian  dynasty.     They  appeard  to  be  ne- 
cessary to  each  other,  and  formed  a  close  offensive 
and  defensive  alliance.     Bathyani's  family  was 
one  of  the  richest,  oldest,  and  most  important ;  its 
head,  Ludwig,  one  of  the  most  esteemed   nobles 
in  the  country.     Kossuth   used  Bathyani  to  give 
more  weight  to  the  national  movement  by  a  name 
of  importance  and  renown,  and  to  further  its  ob- 
jects among  the  nobility.     Bathyani,  on  his  side, 
could  not  dispense  with  Kossuth's  pen  and  tongue 
— Kossuth's  talent,  energy  and  perseverance — 
which  had  not  their  equal  in  all  Hungary.     The 
bond  between  them  was  made  still  closer  from 
the  beginning  of  tlie  Diet.  When  Kossuth  became 
a  direct  leader  of  the  Opposition  in  the  Lowee 
House,  Bathyani  occupied  a  similar  position  in 
the  Upper  Chamber.      Nevertheless,  the  charac- 
ters as  well  as  the  ultimate  aims  of  these  two 
men  were  widely  dissimilar.     Bathyani  was  a 
Liberal  magnate,  who   hailed  the  new  ideas  as 
far  as  a  man  could   do  so  who  looks  back   with 
pride  on  the  age,  splendor,  riches  and  renown  of 
his  family.     He  was  opposed  to  any  servile  caste, 
to  all  the    vices    and  privileges  of  the  nobility 
which  oppress  the  people ;  but  he  would  never 
have  consented  to  the  abolition  of  titles.     The 
Gr.  ( Graf,  or  Count)  was  never  absent  from  his 
signature  as  Minister,  nor  from  that  of  his  brother  ; 
and  when  Ludwig  Bathyani  was  placed  before 
Hainan's   court-martial,  instead   of   vindicating 
himself  by  the  fact  that  almost  all  his  measures 
had  received  the  assent  of  Ferdinand,  he  most 
characteristically  declared  that,  as  an  Hungarian 
magnate,  he  could  be  tried  only  by  his  peers,  and 
not  by  a  military  tribunal. 

Kossuth,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  Liberal  Mag- 
yar, who  advocated  freedom  and  progress  in  so 
far  as  they  appeared  to  forward  his  Magyar  views  ; 
when,  however,  this  was  not  the  case,  the  Magyar 
triumphed  over  all  else.  Hence  it  naturally  en- 
sued that  whenever  Liberalism  came  into  colli- 
sion with  Magyarism,  Bathyani  was  moie  Liberal 
than  Kossuth.  Dut  sometimes  the  reverse  was 
the  case.  The  Liberal  magnate  valued  historical 
right,  royal  dignity,  tfec,  because  if  they  fell,  his 
nobility  must  fall  with  them;  while  the  Liberal 
Magyar  was  opposed  to  all  those  things  where 
they  in  any  way  interfered  with  his  great  national 
objects.  Here  the  Magyar  was  more  Liberal  than 
the  magnate. 

Kossuth,  as  we  have  said,  took  office  under  Ba- 
thyani as  Minister  of  Finance.  What  he  effected 
in  this  position  is  almost  incredible.  Hungary 
had  no  gold,  no  arms,  no  means  of  defence  :  Kos- 
suth created  all.    Calumny  now  attacked  him 


LOUIS  KOSSUTH. 


237 


with  redoubled  energy.  He  was  accused  of  wish- 
ing to  make  Hungary  a  republic — himself,  first 
dictator,  and  then  king.  But  he  triumphed  over 
all  these  slanders.  His  popularity  increased  under 
the  attacks  made  upon  him  from  every  side.  His 
enemies  say  that  he  bewitches  every  one  who 
comes  near  him.  In  fact,  he  did  gain  over  many 
magnates  who  had  despised  the  movement  as 
democratic,  and  won  also  to  the  popular  party 
many  imperial  officers;  among  others  the  brave 
Messaros,  who  long  refused  to  take  office  in  Pesth, 
but  consented  to  it  as  soon  as  ever  he  came  into 
contact  with  Kossuth.  During  the  summer  of 
1848  Kossuth's  health  was  extremely  bad,  and 
he  was  often  so  weak  as  to  be  obliged  to  speak 
to  the  deputies  in  a  sitting  posture.  This,  how- 
ever, did  not  interfere  in  the  least  with  his  activ- 
ity, la  spite  of  his  physical  weakness,  he  framed 
the  financial  measures  which  replenished  the  ex- 
hausted exchequer;  be  electrified  the  Diet  with 
his  eloquence  ;  he  sent  appeal  after  appeal  among 
the  people,  rousing  them  to  the  holy  contest.  We 
give  a  translation  from  one  of  these  appeals  as 
affording  the  most  striking  picture  of  the  elo- 
quence of  the  man  who  wrote  it  and  the  character 
of  the  people  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  It  was 
written  in  the  latter  part  of  September,  1848, 
when  the  intrigues  of  the  Court  of  Vienna  had 
called  forth  the  counter-revolution  under  Jella- 
chich,  which  threatened  to  destroy  the  new-born 
Hungarian  liberty: — 

"As  a  propliet  do  I  speak  unto  you,  patriots! 
poor  betrayed  Magyars !  Often  have  I  prophe- 
sied in  the  last  seven  years,  and  I  tremble  when 
1  see  that  all,  all  has  so  fearfully  soon  been  ful- 
filled. Yea,  each  and  all  of  my  words  have  come 
to  pass.  I  even  foretold  tlie  dreadful  illness  of  a 
man  the  memory  of  wliom  is  connected  with  so 
many  benefits,  and  whose  mental  death  fills  the 
human  breast  with  deep  pain.*  What  I  foretold 
of  the  monarchy,  of  the  Hungarian  aristocracy,  of 
Croatia,  has  all  come  to  pass;  and  that  which  I 
prophesied  concerning  the  dynasty  will  soon  be 
fulfilled.  I  tremble  at  myself  It  is  as  if  the 
book  of  fate  lay  open  before  me ;  in  vain  do  I 
close  my  eyes  upon  it,  the  light  penetrates  into 
my  soul  like  a  flash  of  lightning  through  darkness. 
I  yield  to  its  power,  and  again  will  I  prophesy. 
Hear  me,  0  patriots !  The  eternal  God  mani- 
fests himself,  not  in  single  wonders,  but  in  univer- 
sal laws.  It  is  an  eternal  law  of  God,  that  he 
who  forsakes  himself  is  abandoned  also  by  God. 
It  is  an  eternal  law  that  God  will  help  him  who 
lielps  himself.     It  is  a  law  of  God,  that  perfidy 

*  This  refers  to  Szecheny,  one  of  the  most  noble  men  of 
Hungary,  -who  had  become  mad. 


in  the  end  brings  its  own  punishment.  It  is  a 
law  of  God,  that  whosoever  serves  perfidy  or  un- 
righteousness prepares  the  way  for  the  triumph 
of  righteousness.  Resting  on  these  eternal  laws 
of  the  universe,  I  swear  that  my  prophecy  will 
be  fulfilled.  And  my  prophecy  is  this:  From 
Jellachich's  incursion  into  Hungary  will  result 
Hungarian  freedom.  In  the  sacred  name  of  our 
poor,  perfidiously-betrayed  Hungarian  fatherland, 
I  entreat  you  to  believe  in  the  prophecy,  and  it 
will  be  fulfilled.  Of  what  does  the  power  of  this 
Jellachich  consist  ?  It  is  a  email  physical  force 
of  60,000  or  70,000  men,  which  for  a  moment 
appears  great.  But  what  is  behind  him  ?  What 
support  has  he  ?  AVhere  is  the  nation  to  uphold 
him  with  the  inspiration  of  a  righteous  cause  ? 
Nowhere,  nowhere !  Such  an  army  cannot  lay 
waste  our  country,  conquer  us,  or  profit  by  the 
victory.  Batu  Chan  overran  our  fatherland  with 
a  hundred  thousand  men.  He  destroyed,  but  he 
was  obliged  to  yield.  Such  a  Jellachichexpedi- 
tion  is  like  a  swarm  of  locusts ;  it  presses  ever 
onwards,  but  it  always  decreases  and  falls  at  last 
to  the  ground.  The  farther  Jellachich  advances 
into  the  midst  of  the  people,  the  more  certain  it 
is  that  not  one  of  his  force  will  ever  again  see  the 
waters  of  the  Save.  We  Hungarians  need  only 
resolve,  and  we  are  sufficient  to  stone  his  army 
to  death.  We  will  speak  in  due  time  of  what 
shall  happen  next.  The  Magyar  would  not  de- 
serve that  God's  sun  should  shine  upon  him,  if 
his  first  thought  in  the  morning,  and  his  last  at 
night,  were  not  the  recollection  of  the  base  per- 
fidy, the  hateful  and  unexampled  treachery  which 
has  sworn  to  root  out  the  Magyars  from  the  hu- 
man race.  The  Hungarians  have  now  two  things 
to  do.  The  first  is,  to  rise  up  in  a  mass  to  drive 
back  the  enemy  who  has  set  foot  on  their  native 
soil.  The  second  is,  to  remember  themselves. 
If  the  Magyars  do  not  tliese  two  things,  they  are 
a  dastardly,  miserable  race,  whose  name  will  be 
synonymous  in  history  with  shame  and  degrada- 
tion ;  they  will  be  a  cowardly,  wretched  race,  who 
have  disgraced  the  sacred  memory  of  their  fore- 
fathers, of  whom  the  eternal  God  himself  will  say, 
'  I  repent  that  I  created  them.'  Then  will  the 
Magyar  people  be  so  accursed  of  God  that  the  air 
will  refuse  them  its  enlivening  power,  the  fruitful 
corn-field  will  in  tlieir  liands  become  a  sandy  des- 
ert, at  their  approach  the  refreshing  stream  will 
dry  up.  Homeless  will  the  Magyar  wander  over 
the  eartli ;  in  vain  will  lie  beg  from  the  hand  of 
charity  the  dry  bread  of  alms.  Tiie  strangers  who 
will  make  him  a  beggar  in  his  fatherland  will 
give  him  no  alms;  the}-  will  strike  him  in  the 
face — him,  a  beggar  whom  every  rascal  may  buf- 


238 


LOUIS  KOSSUTH. 


fet  with  impunity,  like  a  clog  without  a  master", 
he  will  become  like  the  Indian  pariah,  who  is 
hunted  with  hounds !  And  in  vain  will  he  turn 
for  comfort  to  religion ;  it  will  afford  him  no  con- 
solation. God,  the  work  of  whose  bands  he  has 
degraded  by  his  cowardice,  will  not  forgive  him 
his  sins  either  in  this  world  or  the  next.  The 
maiden  to  whom  he  shall  lift  his  eyes  will  drive 
him  from  her  threshold  with  a  besom  like  a  mangy 
cur;  his  wife  will  spit  in  his  face  with  contempt ; 
the  first  word  of  his  child  will  be  a  curse  upon 
his  father.  Oh, horror,  horror!  But  so  will  it  be. 
With  the  inexorable  oath  of  a  curse  do  I  swear 
by  the  God  of  freedom,  by  the  insulted  memory 
of  our  ancestors,  who  bought  this  fatherland  with 
their  blood,  I  swear  that  so  will  it  be  if  the  Mag- 
yar race  is  base  enough  not  to  rise  up  against  this 
servile  jailor,  Jellachich,  and  to  crush  the  Servian 
robbers  and  that  traitor  who  has  dared  to  lift  his 
hand  against  the  Magyars,  as  the  whirlwind 
sweeps  away  the  unbound  sheaves  before  it,  or 
if  the  Hungarian  people  be  cowardly  enough  to 
rest  content  with  the  annihilation  of  their  ene- 
mies, or  to  forget  for  a  moment  the  traitor  and 
his  treachery.  No !  no !  the  Magyar  cannot  do 
it;  and  cursed  be  he  that  does!  Therefore  say 
I  unto  you,  that  from  Jellachich's  incursion  will 
come  Hungary's  freedom.  First  let  us  conquer, 
and  then  we  will  settle  all.  This  is  our  task- 
To  arms,  then,  all  ye  who  are  men  !  But  let  the 
women  dig  a  great  grave  between  Vessprim  and 
Weissenburg,  in  which  we  will  bury  the  Hunga- 
rian name,  the  Hungarian  honor,  the  Hungarian 
nation — or  our  enemies ;  and  over  which  shall 
rise  a  monument  to  tha  shame  of  Hungary,  with 
this  inscription, '  Thus  does  God  punish  coward- 
ice !'  or  tlie  ever-green  tree  of  freedom,  from 
whose  foliage  shall  be  heard  the  voice  of  God,  as 
it  spoke  to  Moses  from  the  burning  bush,  saying, 
'  The  place  whereon  thou  standest  is  holy ;  thus 
do  I  reward  valor  with  the  freedom,  renown,  wel- 
fare, and  happiness  of  the  Magyars!'  To  arms, 
then,  0  Magyar !  for  thy  life,  for  thy  honor,  for 
thy  fatherland,  for  thy  house,  for  thy  hearth,  which 
thou  hast  inherited  from  thy  ancestors,  for  the 
ground  which  nourishes  thee,  which  thou  hast 
cultivated  with  thy  bloody  sweat,  and  which  now 
the  traitors,  as  a  reward  for  the  overthrow  of  your 
liberty,  will  deliver  into  the  hands  of  the  Servians, 
the  lUyrians,  that  they  may  make  you  accursed 
in  your  own  native  land,  as  the  poor  Temerin 
Magyars  are  already  become.  Up!  up  !  to  arms, 
Magyars!  He  who  obeys  not  the  law,  to  which 
the  King  himself  has  sworn,  is  a  traitor ;  and  take 
the  traitor  prisoner  and  deliver  him  up  to  the 
law.     Our  fatherland  is  our  all !     Fatherland  is 


everything !  To  save  our  fatherland  is  our  first 
duty  1  If  we  save  our  fatherland  we  shall  save 
ourselves !  Whoever  has  the  least  influence  in 
a  village  or  a  province,  let  him  seize  a  banner. 
Let  us  hear  upon  tlie  Hungarian  plains  no  other 
music  than  Rakozy's  mournful  earnest  march  > 
gather  together  ten,  twenty,  fifty,  a  hundred,  a 
thousand  men,  as  many  as  it  is  possible,  and  lead 
them  to  Vessprim ;  there  shall  the  whole  Magyjfr 
people  assemble  together,  as  the  risen  human 
race  shall  assemble  on  the  day  of  judgment — and 
then  against  the  enemy !  Sing  your  sacred  hymn, 
'  God  save  our  fatherland, our  Magyar  fatherland; 
annihilate  our  enemies  who  persecute  us!  Up, 
up,  to  arms!     With  us  are  God  and  the  right!'" 

When  the  struggle  with  Austria  commenced> 
Kossuth's  activity  was  redoubled.  Notwithstand- 
ing his  numerous  duties  as  President  of  the  Com- 
mittee of  National  Defences,  he  found  time  to 
hasten  from  place  to  place,  rousing  the  people  to 
arms.  His  eloquence,  his  valor,  his  ability,  were 
the  very  soul  of  this  righteous  insurrection,  of 
this  war  defensible,  if  ever  war  were,  against  ty- 
ranny, cruelty,  and  wicked  oppression.  Our  space 
will  not  admit  of  our  giving  particulars  of  the 
contest.  The  events  are  too  recent,  too  deeply 
and  painfully  interesting  to  be  already  forgotten 
by  Englishmen,  who  must  feel  the  greatest  sym- 
pathy in  efforts  to  gain  that  freedom  which  they 
themselves  possess  and  value  above  all  price. 
We  have  all  mourned  over  the  fall  of  that  noble 
band  of  patriots ;  we  have  all  felt  bitter  indigna- 
tion against  Austrian  barbarity. 

We  have  given  a  specimen  of  Kossuth's  elo- 
quence and  spirit  in  calling  his  fellow-countrymen 
to  rise  for  their  mother  country.  We  now  quote 
a  touching  account  of  his  farewell  to  them  when 
the  struggle  was  over  and  their  ardent  hopes 
were  destroyed: — 

"  Whoever  saw  the  sun-burnt  faces  of  the  war- 
riors who  surrounded  the  bending  form  of  Kossuth 
when  he  pronounced  his  farewell  words  in  the 
barracks  of  Schumla;  whoever  beheld  the  hot 
tears  coursing  down  the  cheeks  of  his  bearded 
Honveds  when  Kossuth  bade  them  '  Istenaldjon ! 
'  God  bless  you !'  will  have  been  reminded  by  the 
incident  of  'the  Old  Guard,'  who  retained  their 
unswerving  devotion  to  Napoleon  to  the  very 
latest  moment.  That  moving  scene  so  often  rep- 
resented in  pictures,  '  Napoleon's  farewell,'  was' 
on  the  loth  of  February,  1850,  rehearsed  before 
my  eyes  in  living  colors.  The  Honveds  hung  in 
silence  on  his  every  word,  that  the  echo  of  those 
well-beloved  and  inspiring  tones  might  long  lin- 
ger in  their  souls.  Nor  did  Kossuth  forget  to  gaze 
long  and  intently  with  his  streaming  eyes  upon 


LOUIS   KOSSUTH. 


239 


the  countenance  of  each  brave  comrade  there,  to 
fix  the  features  in  his  memory.  Profoundly  agi- 
tated as  he  was,  with  a  trembling  voice  he  spoke 
these  words :  '  Brothers,  the  first  hard  necessity 
of  my  life  was  that  to  which  I  was  subjected 
when  constrained  to  abandon  my  native  soil  and 
my  noble  nation;  the  second  meets  me  today, 
when  I  behold  myself  obliged  to  bid  a  long  fare- 
well to  you,  glorious  remnants  of  the  brave  Hun 
garian  army,  and  compelled  by  force  to  depart 
from  Europe  to  a  place  where  the  grave  yearns 
for  me.  Ye  are  still  strong  and  efiicient ;  ye  are 
still  permitted  to  bear  arms  for  your  fatherland 
and  struggle  for  its  freedom — a  boon  no  longer 
granted  to  me,  for  I  feel  my  strength  declining 
every  day.  I  yield  to  the  unalterable  decree  of 
destiny,  and  behold  myself  doomed  to  the  same 
sad  lot  of  exile  which  was  meted  out  to  my  pre- 
decessor, Rakoezy.  Brothers !  ye  are  yet  young 
enough  to  see  our  fatherland  in  the  glory  of  her 
restoration  to  freedom.  Should  ye  be  so  blest 
as  to  witness  this,  swear  to  me  that  ye  Mill  not 
leave  my  bones  to  moulder  in  a  foreign  soil,  in 
the  land  of  this  barbarian  !  This  ye  will  promi:?e 
me,  and  this,  I  am  couvinced,  ye  will  fulfil.'  Now 
Count  Ladislaus  Vay,  with  uncovered  head,  step- 
ped up  to  Kossuth,  and  said  aloud  in  a  strong  and 
manly  voice,  '  Great  man !  who  standest  there 
pure  and  spotless  before  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
thou  whom  the  Hungarian  nation  honors  to-day 
as  it  honored  thee  when  it  took  thee  for  its  Re- 
gent, thou  wilt,  thou  shalt,  thou  7)iust  live .'  Not 
thy  bones  but  thy  living  self  will  we  bear  back 
in  triumph  to  our  fatherland ;  this  we  swear  by 
the  Almighty  God.'  And  all  bared  their  heads 
while  they  uplifted  their  hands  to  take  the  oath, 
and  solemidy  repeated, '  Esku  Zunk,'  '  We  swear 
it!' 

"  Kossuth  kissed  and  embraced  those  who  stood 
nearest  to  him.  All  pressed  towards  him  to  grasp 
his  hand  and  bathe  it  with  tears.  The  old  Hus- 
sars strove  once  more  to  press  the  hem  of  his 
mantle  to  their  lips.  The  whole  group  was  heart- 
rending to  look  upon ;  and  even  the  Turks — and 
this  is  saying  much — were  moved  to  tears  at  the 
sight.  The  train  then  repaired  to  Count  Casimir 
Bathyani,  to  bid  him  also  a  heartfelt  farewell. 
The  Count  left  manj^  beautiful  reflections  of  his 
Doble  soul  in  the  remembrance  of  the  emigration. 

"Kossuth  mounted  his  horse  and  was  borne 
away.  That  brilliant  star  of  the  firmament  of 
Hungary,  from  which  the  nation  had  received  its 
greatest  light,  gradually  disappeared  until  it  could 
no  longer  be  seen  in  the  whole  circuit  of  tlie  hori- 
zon. The  waves  of  tiie  Black  Sea  once  more  gave 
back  a  reflection  of  its  splendor,  and  a  long  night 


closedinupon  that  too  brief  day."'     ("Sketches  of 
the  Magyars,"  itc,  by  Von  Korn.) 

In  the  "Hue  and  Cry,"  in  which  the  Auslrians 
proscribed  his  wife  and  three  children  (!)  as  well 
as  himself,  Kossuth's  portrait  is  given  to  the  fol- 
lowing effect:  "His  proud  forehead  is  set  in  con- 
trast with  his  smiling  lips  and  pearly  teeth.  The 
brilliant  glow  of  his  dark-blue  eyes  is  as  well 
defined  as  the  sickly  paleness  of  his  noble  counte- 
nance. His  charming  voice  is  specially  remark- 
able; no  less  his  knowledge  of  all  the  principal 
European  languages.  In  summer  he  pever  wears 
a  cravat,  but  simply  a  curled  collar."  His  men- 
tal and  physical  qualities  are  summed  up  by  the 
author  of  "  Revelations  of  Russia"  in  these  words : 
"  I  believe  Kossuth  to  have  as  profound  a  know- 
ledge of  human  nature  as  his  favorite  writer, 
Shakspeure,  of  whose  bust  his  features  in  some 
degree  remind  you.  To  complete  his  physical 
portraiture,  I  would  only  add  to  this  description 
the  chin  antl  mouth  of  Byron,  the  eye  and  com- 
plexion of  Bonaparte,  as  painted  by  De  la  Roche, 
and  beg  the  reader  to  suppose  the  efifects  of  a  few 
years'  imprisonment,  of  his  long  parliamentary 
campaign,  and  of  the  period  of  his  ministry  and 
presidency.  His  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
together  with  his  power  of  adapting  himself  to 
the  capacity  of  those  he  addresses,  is  the  source 
of  his  eloquence ;  and  if  the  test  of  eloquence  is 
to  move  and  to  persuade,  he  is  assuredly  the  most 
eloquent  of  all  men  living.  The  masses  admir- 
ingly term  his  style,  in  addressing  them.  Biblical ; 
and  perhaps  do  not  inaptly  characterize  it.  His 
enemies  reproach  him  justly  with  being  a  poet; 
and  assuredly  his  writings  and  his  speeches  are 
filled  with  poetry  of  the  highest  order ;  but  they 
fell  into  a  grievous  error  when  they  thereby  in. 
tended  to  imply  that  he  is  nothing  but  a  poet. 
The  distinctive  peculiarity  in  which  he  differs 
from  all  other  popular  leaders  I  can  remember 
who  have  been  gifted  with  that  poetical  genius 
which  is  so  important  a  constituent  of  eloquence, 
is  the  rare  combination  with  that  talent  of  an 
equal  aptitude  for  figures,  facts,  and  administra- 
tive detail.  There  are  tAvo  men  in  him  :  the  Kos. 
suth,  eloquent  with  tongue  and  pen  in  half  the 
languages  of  Europe,  who  can  raise  the  whirl, 
wind  of  passion  in  the  masses,  and  lead  the  peo  - 
pie  as  Moses  did  the  Israelites;  and  the  logically 
argumentative  Kossuth  of  deliberative  assem- 
blies, the  administrator  and  financier  who  writes 
a  secretary's  clear  round  hand,  and  enters  will- 
ingly into  the  most  laborious  detail.  Add  to 
this  the  most  fervent  patriotism  and  an  integrity 
and  disinterestedness  which  has  never  been  as- 
sailed e.xcept  by  notorious  hirelings  of  Austi'ia. 


240 


LOUIS   KOSSUTH. 


You  will  say  from  all  this  that  I  who  repudiate 
so  energetically  the  idolatry  of  hero-worship  have 
fallen  into  it.  It  is  not  so.  I  am  perfectly  awake 
to  Kossuth's  faults,  which  are  various  and  many. 
He  is  too  soft-hearted.  He  could  never  sign  a 
death-warrant ;  he  was  hardly  ever  known  to  pun. 
ish.  I  believe  that  if  Kossuth  had  a  servant  who 
could  not  clean  his  boots,  he  would  never  think  of 
superseding  him,  but  clean  the  boots  himself. 
On  this  principle  he  wastes  his  time  and  energies 
in  details  in  which  he  should  have  no  concern, 
and  wears  out,  if  not  his  untiring  mind,  a  body 
which  would  be  otherwise  robust.  These  weak- 
nesses, which  might  be  amiable  in  an  individual, 
are  fetal  in  one  who  is  literally  a  nation's  repre- 
sentative. But  I  believe  that  he  has  judgment 
enough  to  see,  and  will  have  sufficient  determina- 
tion to  correct  these  faults.  In  conclusion,  I  can 
only  say  that,  after  the  calamitous  issue  of  the 
struggle  which  he  directed,  the  people  call  him 
Father  Kossuth,  wear  shreds  of  his  porti'ait  on 
their  bosoms,  invest  their  hoarded  savings  in  his 
notes,  which  I  have  seen  purchased  at  twenty 
per  cent.,  though  their  possession  is  felony,  and 
that  if  he  could  present  himself  on  the  frontier 
with  400,000  muskets,  a  few  presses,  and  some 
bales  of  paper,  400,000  soldiers  would  rise  up, 
and  he  would  find  his  paper-money  received  as 
eagerly  as  before.  The  peasantry  affectionately 
remember  Kossuth  as  their  emancipator,  and  the 
proprietors  gratefully  recall  that  to  the  measures 
into  which  his  eloquence  persuaded  them  is  due 
that  hearty  reconciliation  between  all  classes 
which  has  made  the  Magyar  nation  the  only  one 
on  the  continent  of  Europe  in  which,  amid  its 
misfortunes,  all  heart-burnings  between  caste  and 
class  are  set  at  rest."  ("  Memoirs  of  a  Hungarian 
Lady."  By  Theresa  Pulzky.  Vol.  ii.,  p.  354 
seq.) 

Specially  deserving  of  notice  is  Kossuth's  gentle, 
tender,  and  trusting  heart.  His  unsuspiciousness 
is  illustrated  in  the  fact,  that  though  be  was  well 
aware  of  Goergey's  ambition,  he  did  not  till  the 
last  believe  him  capable  of  treachery.  His  good- 
ness of  nature  made  him  respect  the  life  of  man 
as  the  highest  gift  of  God,  and  he  neither  could, 
would,  nor  ever  did  sign  a  death-warrant,  though 
placed  at  the  head  of  a  fearful  revolutionary  strug- 
gle. His  religious  earnestness  and  high  moral 
principle  shone  forth  advantageously  when  the 
proposal  was  made  by  Turkey  to  himself  and  fel- 
low fugitives,  that  if  they  turned  Mohammedans, 
the  government  would  be  able  to  guarantee  their 
safety,  as  the  Koran  condemns,  as  an  unpardon- 
able crime,  the  delivery  of  a  Mussulman  to  his 
enemies.    Most  of  the  emigrants  replied  to  the 


overture,  "Rather  the  Russians  than  the  Aus- 
rians,  rather  Mohammedanism  than  the  Russians." 
Kossuth  answered  that  he  did  not  pretend  to  con- 
trol the  conduct  of  any  of  his  compatriots;  that 
every  man's  religious  convictions  were  a  matter 
which  rested  only  between  himself  and  God; 
that,  consistently  with  that  sincerity  and  truth  to 
which  he  had  always  rigidly  adhered,  he  could 
hold  out  no  hope  that  if  they  refused  the  offer 
made  them  their  extradition  would  be  averted, 
and  that  if  given  up  to  Austria,  he  knew  its  Cab- 
inet too  well  to  allow  them  to  cherish  for  a  mo- 
ment the  illusion  that  any  mercy  would  be 
shown.  Nevertheless,  for  his  own  part,  he  would, 
when  asked  to  abjure  the  faith  of  his  forefethers 
through  terror  of  the  executioner,  welcome  rath- 
er  the  gibbet  and  the  block ;  and  he  concluded 
by  denouncing  curses  on  the  tongue  which  would 
dare  to  propose  to  him  anyl;hing  so  infamous. 

It  is  not  easy  to  form  an  exact  conception  of 
a  man  who  has  been  engaged  in  a  great  political 
struggle,  in  which  parties  of  various  sympathies 
and  aims  have  been  actively  engaged.  The  pre- 
ceding statements,  however,  contain  facts  and 
views  out  of  which  a  correct  judgement  of  Kos- 
suth's character  may  be  gathered.  H  ighly  gifted 
as  a  man,  he  has  appeared  in  different  liglits  ac- 
cordingly as  he  has  been  regarded  from  different 
points  of  view  and  by  disagreeing  partisans.  His 
admitted  tenderness  of  heart  has  been  reproached 
as  a  weakness ;  and  doubtless  in  a  statesman 
firmness  of  nerve,  if  not  vigor,  is  sometimes  ne- 
cessary. Yet  if  his  aversion  to  severity  detracts 
from  his  efficiency  as  a  Governor,  it  makes  him 
more  estimable  in  his  private  relations.  His  en- 
emies have  pronounced  him  an  agitator  rather 
than  a  statesman ;  but  occasions  there  are  when 
the  qualities  of  an  honest  agitator  are  of  great 
value.  Even  friends  of  Kossuth,  however,  hold, 
that  had  his  mind  possessed  more  statesmanlike 
qualities,  he  would  have  less  confidently  reckon- 
ed on  receiving  succor  from  Liberal  govern- 
ments; and  so,  with  a  less  incorrect  estimate  of 
available  resources,  have  served  the  cause  of  prac- 
ticable good  more  effectually.  The  truth  seems  to 
be  that,  with  a  most  impressible  temperament,  he 
is  more  fitted  to  arouse  an  oppressed  people  than 
to  devise  the  measures  or  procure  the  resources  re- 
quisite for  the  successful  assertion  of  their  liberty. 
Equally  true  is  it  that  his  sympathies  and  prin- 
ciples were  too  exclusively  and  too  ardently  demo- 
cratic to  conciliate  and  bring  into  effective  union  the 
hereditary,  prescriptive  and  traditional  forces  of 
ancient  and  historical  races  who  had  little  else  in 
common  but  the  same  soil.  Hence  was  he  dis- 
liked and  distrusted  by  the  nobility,  from  whom 


THE   WARRIOR   AND   THE   POET. 


241 


he  obtained  concessions  chiefly  in  virtue  of  his 
command  over  the  people.  Tliat  command  was 
supreme.  Its  potency  may  be  illustrated  by  an 
anecdote.  A  file  of  Hungarian  prisoners  was  led 
into  Szegedin,  attended  by  a  strong  Austrian 
guard.  Being  a  market  day,  the  town  was  crowd- 
ed with  sturdy  peasants  who  had  come  from  the 
whole  country  around.  From  some  cause  tlie 
van  of  the  soldiers  had  fallen  a  little  behind,  and 
the  first  prisoner  entered  the  market-place  al' 
most  alone  for  the  moment.  As  he  came  to  the 
spot  where  Kossuth's  last  and  very  stirring 
speeches  were  made,  he  suddenly  stopped,  took 
off  his  hat,  raised  his  fettered  hands  to  heaven, 
and  with  a  voice  which  rang  like  a  trumpet  over 
the  immense  crowd,  shouted  again  and  again, 
"Eljen  Kossuth  !  Eljen  Kossuth !"  In  a  moment, 
despite  the  Austrian  cannen  and  the  long  line  of 
soldiers  whose  bayonets  almost  touched  them, 
the  people  put  forth  a  shout,  like  the  roar  of  the 
sea  on  the  shore,  again  and  again  ringing  out  the 
words  "Eljen  Kossuth!"  The  whole  Austrian 
forces  were  at  once  called  out  for  fear  of  an  out- 
break. 

For  this  empire  over  the  people  Kossuth  is 
much  indebted  to  his  eloquence.  Certainly,  if 
eloquence  is  to  be  estimated  by  the  effects  it  pro- 
duces, the  eloquence  of  Kossuth  is  surpassingly 
great.    But  with  even  the  most  higlily-gifted  na- 


tures eloquence  waits  an  occasion.  The  centre 
of  a  great  national  struggle  is  pre-eminently  the 
point  for  the  concentration  of  the  electric  influence, 
and  for  the  due  utterance  of  eloquence  a  native 
language,  if  not  a  native  soul,  is  indispensable. 
Moments  of  vexation,  ceremonious  audiences,  and 
municipal  small  talk  quench  rather  than  stimulate 
eloquence.  We  are  not,  then,  to  question  Kos- 
suth's oratorical  power,  if  we  find  his  travelling 
words  somewhat  high-flown.  Besides,  eloquence 
is  a  national  growth.  It  varies  with  latitude  and 
longitude.  If  to  us  Kossuth's  eloquence  appear 
too  ardent,  too  imaginative,  even  a  little  flighty, 
we  must  remember  that  we  are  of  Anglo-Saxon 
blood,  and  live  far  north  and  west.  His  own 
countrymen  are  the  best  judges  of  Kossuth's  ora- 
tory ;  and  they  have  felt  its  power  and  acted  un- 
der its  impulse.  Whether  his  wisdom  equal  his 
eloquence  will  be  made  clear  in  his  future  career. 
That  he  is  not  a  mere  poet  nor  a  mere  agitator, 
but  a  noble-hearted  patriot  as  well  as  a  good  and 
disinterested  man,  what  he  has  already  effected 
makes  abundantly  manifest.  Undoubtedly  his 
imagination  is  strong  and  vivid.  We  hope  that 
in  strength  of  intellect  and  breadth  of  view  he 
has  powers  of  corresponding  ])otency.  Best  of 
all  is  his  nobility  of  soul.  It  is  moral  greatness 
that  makes  truly  great  men. 


THE    WARRIOR    AND    THE   POET 


BT      CAROLINE      CHE3BBBO 


One  ruled  in  camp  and  state,  and  one 
In  glorious  realms  of  heart  and  mind  ; 

And  both  a  conquering  race  have  run. 
And  in  their  victories  bless'd  mankind. 

They  've  nobly  won  their  burial-place, 
Deep  in  a  nation's  reverent  heart ! 

The  lyre  Sne  touched  with  all  the  grace 
Of  peerless  genius,  linked  with  art, 

The  sword  He  held,  are  silent  each  : 
Oh  lay  these  emblems  gently  down 

Close  by  our  dead — within  their  reach — 
And  with  them  lay  the  laurel  crown. 

For  they  have  won  the  noblest  meed, 
A  nation's  sad,  bereavement-tears  ; 

And  grandly  will  their  histories  read 
To  glistening  eyes  of  future  years. 

For  her  how  high  the  thoughts  of  pride, 
How  full  the  thankful  hearts  -w^ill  swell, 


For  love  and  power  stood  side  by  side 
To  teach  her  their  bewildering  spell. 

They  've  nobly  won  the  noblest  meed. 
The  honors  which  most  proudly  shine  ; 

His  fire-nerved  soul,  of  daring  deed, 
And  hers  who  sang  with  "bards  sublime." 

They  struggled  through  life's  toilsome  ways. 
Undaunted,  wheresoe'er  they  led  ; 

They  counted  wearying  years  but  days. 
O'er  which  one  sun  its  love-light  shed. 

Thoy  struggled  well — they  died  outworn — 
High  let  their  grand  memorial  rise; 

They  braved  the  battle-shock  and  storm, 
A  crusade-cross  upon  them  lies. 

Xo  more  on  him  the  government — 
No  more  for  her  the  sickening  strife  : 

The  chief  has  scaled  Time's  battlement — 
She  tunes  her  harp  to  angel-life  I 


THE    CHRISTIAN'S    DEATH-BED 


BY      E  , 


CANNING. 


It  was  a  summer  sunset.    All  the  west 
Was  strewn  with  gorgeousness — a  cloudy  sea 
That  surged  with  golden  glory.     Day's  last  smiles 
Were  dying  on  the  mountains,  and  the  breeze 
Forth  in  its  twilight  joyance  came  to  kiss 
The  folding  flowers,  and  with  their  stolen  sweets 
Lull  Nature  to  her  dreams.     The  busy  hour 
Of  gathering  to  rest  was  come  ;  the  eye 
Of  toil  watched  wearily  the  ling'ring  sun. 
And  ached  to  slumber.    Carolling  good  night, 
Sought  the  plumed  songster  his  repose.    The  vale 
Looked  dreamy  as  the  gathering  mist  grew  deep 
Upon  its  bosom  ;  and  began  the  rill 
To  lift  a  louder  clamor  from  afar. 

The  lattice  of  an  humble  cottage  stood 
On  the  calm  scene  unclosed.     A  woodbine  hung 
Its  rich,  dark  burden  in  luxuriance 
Above  the  trellis,  wooing  dalliance 
Of  the  soft  zephyr,  and  its  green  festoons 
Contrasted  with  a  curtain  bejLuteously, 
That  shook  its  folds  of  spotless  white  within. 
No  eye  looked  forth  in  gladness  thence,  to  trace 
The  step  of  evening  on  the  landscape  far, 
And  watch  the  stilling  pulses  of  a  world  : 
The  chamber  of  the  dying  opened  there. 
There  was  a  hush  of  tongues  within,  and  he 
Who  pressed  the  pillow  that  should  be  his  bier 
Looked  with  a  Christian's  hope  beyond  the  tomb. 
Death's  hand  was  busy  ;  for  his  frigid  brow 
Was  dampened,  and  the  fallen  cheek  had  lost 
Its  mantling  life-blood.     Every  nerve  grew  still. 
And  from  each  feature  looked  mortality 
In  ghastly  triumph.    Life's  last  energy 
Smiled  at  the  conqueror  through  the  eye,  that  shot 
Unearthly  lustre  to  illume  the  wreck 
Of  beauty  and  of  manliness.     Alas  ! 
That  death  should  quench  that  glory,  as  it  beamed 
Like  beacon  on  the  boundary  of  Time. 
There  was  a  calmness  in  the  upturned  gaze. 
Quickening  at  times  to  splendor,  that  bespoke 
A  spirit  loosening  its  earth-clogged  wing. 
To  sweep  the  fields  that  lie  beyond  the  stars  : 
Ay — read  it  not  e'en  now  in  holiness 
The  mysteries  of  immortality. 
And  conned  the  gloried  rhapsodies  of  heaven  ? 

The  stillness  deepened,  and  the  twilight  gloom 
More  sombre  waxed  upon  the  shadowy  walls. 
Noiselessly  trembled  in  the  breath  of  eve 
The  clustering  woodbine,  and  the  insect's  drone 
Which  boomed  without,  or,  sudden  down-dropt,  hushed, 
Startled  the  deep  solemnity — when  lo  ! 


There  burst  a  beam  of  sunset  splendor  bright 
Athwart  the  casement,  and  its  golden  glow 
Lit  the  calm  features  of  the  dying  man. 
Beauteous  mockery  !  that  fain  would  catch 
A  borrowed  brightness  from  that  radiant  eye 
That  lit  itself  where  light  knows  no  decline. 
And  hark  !  was  it  an  angel's  voice  that  spoke  ' 
Softer  than  murmurs  of  the  far-off  grove, 
There  floated  strains  of  untold  melody  ; 
And  thus  an  unseen  minstrel  seemed  to  sing  : 

Come,  spirit  immortal, 

Thy  pinion  is  free  ! 
And  hosts  of  the  blessed 

Are  waiting  for  thee  1 
0  come,  for  earth's  shadows 

And  sorrows  are  o'er. 
And  the  tear-drop  of  anguish 

Shall  trickle  no  more. 

Spread,  spirit  immortal, 

Thy  glorious  wing ! 
A  seraph  shall  guide  thee 

Where  seraphim  sing. 
Thy  warfare  is  finished. 

Thy  sins  are  forgiven ; 
The  ransomed  sliall  welcome 

Thine  advent  to  heaven. 

Away,  for  they  call  thee 

To  dwell  with  the  blest, 
Where  joy  never  dies. 

In  the  land  of  their  rest, 
Where  the  bright  brow  of  love 

Is  undimmed  by  a  frown. 
And  the  conqueror  beareth 

The  harp  and  the  crown. 

Haste,  spirit,  they're  shouting 

With  raptures  unknown  ; 
Thou  'It  bend  with  the  triumph 

That  circles  the  throne. 
Lo  !  splendor  immortal 

Illumines  out  way ! 
Heaven  opens  !  God  smileth  ! 

Haste,  spirit,  away  I 

The  airy  harp  was  hushed;  yet  lingering. 
The  latest  numbers  lengthened,  softening  still, 
And  like  a  dream  of  beauty  died  away. 
The  sunbeam  faded,  and  the  parting  soul 
Leaped  to  Ihe  joyous  summons  forth,  while  burned 
The  latest  smile  of  ecstasy  behind. 


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